


Something Outside Your Window

by bravado



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 23:57:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2526383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravado/pseuds/bravado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey and Mandy move into a shitty little town house and Mickey's bedroom window backs directly onto the bathroom of the house next door. A house which, it so happens, is filled with people who are noisy as fuck are constantly making a commotion when he needs to be asleep - something that has Mickey ready to start knocking heads. That is, until he hears a guy jerking off in the shower one night. </p><p>A guy who turns out to be his incredibly hot, redheaded neighbour. Whose voice Mickey maybe wanks to.</p><p>*This work was abandoned but has now been finished*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It starts with Terry.

In November he takes Joey on a drug run and when April rolls in and they haven’t returned everyone knows they’re not coming back. Dead, in prison, Mickey doesn’t really care, but it does shake things up. People start coming to collect old debts, settle old scores, and Mickey gets in more fights in a three-month period than he thinks he has in his whole life. His ribs are cracked for months and he can’t eat or speak without reopening his permanently split lip.

When he walks down the street people look at him with either fear or hatred, tell him he’s filling his father’s boots nicely. It makes Mickey sick.

Iggy disappears to an old girlfriend’s house around May. He still texts Mickey for weed every now and then but otherwise drops out of contact. For a time it’s just Mandy and Mickey in the Milkovich house, the four-bedroom place feeling strangely large around them. Old relations and friends of Terry’s drop in from time to time, but they’re never looking for the two black-haired Milkoviches. Usually they’ll leave on their own accord, but a few try to settle in or look at Mandy just a little too long for Mickey’s liking. They end up with a knife to their throat and a whispered promise of what will happen if they come back.

Not having Terry around though means not having a steady flow of money. They’d never been rich by any measure, but Terry’s clients always paid well and after a while the influx of their cash starts to make itself known. Part-time work at a construction site becomes full time for Mickey, and eventually Mandy finds a job at The Waffle House. Even so, Mickey starts going around and collecting old debts, capping knees and breaking wrists to start hoarding whatever cash he can get. He knows the other shoe is going to drop eventually.

June comes and the city turns up to tell them to fuck off. It turns out the place has never actually been in Terry’s name and rent’s years overdue, the pansy ass landlord only finding the courage to demand compensation now that Terry’s gone. Mickey puts up a fight, ends up standing over the landlord late one night with a metal bat and a gun tucked into the back of his jeans. The guy just smiles condescendingly and tells him that “When you’ve been dealing with Terry for years, his pitbull son really isn’t that impressive.”

Mickey shoots the guy in the foot for good measure, assures him that if he snitches Terry will be back for a visit. It doesn’t matter that it’s a lie; the flash of terror in the dumpy man’s eyes is satisfaction enough.

Mandy and Mickey are given a week to find somewhere new to live. Unsurprisingly, that’s something easier said than done when you’re a Milkovich.

It’s only by chance that Mandy spots the town house, newly finished with a flashy ‘For Rent’ sign out front. When they turn up for a viewing and the landlord is a fucking cop Mickey is more than ready to turn tail and run, even though he’s pretty sure it’s one of the few cops he hasn’t actually assaulted. Fuck if he’s living in some cop’s house. But the rent is cheaper than it should be for the not entirely shitty joint and the cop, Tony, doesn’t seemed too put off by the youngest Milkovich brats. He even smiles warily as he shows them the house. Mickey bares his teeth back and gets a punch to the side of the head from Mandy.

It used to be one of the bigger places on the street, but the Tony had it converted into a set of side-by-side townhouses with two bedrooms each. There are two floors; a small kitchen-slash-dining area and living room taking up the bottom level, the bedrooms and a single bathroom between them on the second floor. The walls are brick and the guy who owns the other side is hardly ever home, Tony explains, working three jobs to cover rent and his child support. Mickey doesn’t really give a fuck; he’d barely noticed the guy as he dashed out his door when Tony led them in. Still, Mandy smirks at the dude’s retreating form and Mickey gives glares.

“Don’t fuck the guy next door.” he grunts. Mandy rolls her eyes and hits him again.

Mickey has to find a second job to cover the deposit, gets a gig as a bouncer outside a shitty bar across town. It’s somewhere that his name still carries weight but there’s no one specifically out to get him for shit Terry’s responsible for. Plus he gets to beat the crap out of people and get paid. Along with the construction work his sleeping pattern’s going to be thrown to shit and he probably won’t even have time to jerk off between shifts, let alone do anything productive. Still, it’s better than doing nothing and ending up on the streets. Mandy also takes up extra shifts at The Waffle House to get a head start on rent, but to Mickey’s quiet relief she doesn’t drop out of school – even if that means money’s mainly up to him. In fact, she actually signs up for a few summer classes. Nothing too exciting - just English and History - but she's decided she wants to get her shitty GPA up and maybe even go to community college. For all the shit Mickey gives her about it, he's actually kinda proud. Not that he'd ever tell her that.

They get the place and move in on a sunny Thursday afternoon. Mickey has to swap shifts with another guy from the construction site, but he’s already ahead with rent cash so it’s not a problem. It’s really starting to heat up but Mandy just lounges on the porch while Mickey attempts to lug their shitty furniture into the house with the help of the removal guys. The way a few of them chuckle when Mickey can’t quite reach the stuff higher up in the truck makes him want to start throwing punches. Mickey grits his teeth.

Eventually they get everything in and Mickey has to wrestle Mandy for the bigger room. He only wins because he gets grabs one of her bra straps and snaps it viciously against her shoulder until she gives. The indents of her teeth in his bicep sting like a bitch but he still smirks as he jams his double mattress through the door. There’s a closet set into the wall that it shares with the bathroom, Mickey’s dresser already shoved against the wall by the door and a large window directly opposite it. Finally wedging his mattress in, he shoves it into the far corner of the room, knowing the light from the window will only hit the centre of the bed rather than the end where his head will be. The bedframe can come up tomorrow Mickey figures and heads to Mandy’s room to gloat.

“Breadwinner gets the bigger room.” he grins.

“Biggest bitch, biggest room.” she grumbles from where she’s bent over the instructions for her own bed.

“At least I ain’t fucking half the eleventh eleventh grade.”

“Fuck off. That room’s fuckin’ weird anyway, the window looks straight into the house next door.” There are a few screws clamped between her teeth so it comes out kind of garbled but Mickey just shrugs. Honestly he hadn’t noticed the window, but there are heavy curtains in his room so it probably won’t be an issue. Mandy growls irritably. “Help me with the big bit.” She says, trying to balance the headboard against the wall to screw it to the frame.

“Yeah, maybe if you’d helped me with the couch.” he snarks back, already heading towards the bathroom for a piss. “Do you know how fucking heavy that piece of shit is?” Mandy throws him a few choice words but doesn’t come out of her room.

Tony had said the neighbours were great and offered to introduce them to a few and Mickey had very explicitly declined. Milkoviches aren’t the neighbourly type. But Mandy was right, the window in his room does back directly onto a frosted glass window that Mickey assumes is the neighbour’s bathroom. There’s barely a metre between them, but most people leave their bathroom windows shut anyway, so it shouldn’t be a problem. It’s not like he’ll be getting to know the neighbours anyway.

When Mickey leaves for work at the club around dusk he doesn’t give the boy hacking roadkill apart in the neighbour’s yard a second look.

His shift is long and boring and he almost says fuck it and heads home to sleep twice. But Mickey needs the money so he sticks it out, breaks up a few drunken fights and glares at the underage assholes that hand him pasted together IDs. He ignores that fact that technically he’s not old enough to be working at the club, but really, what’s a year or two? Some of these punks don’t look a day over fifteen.

By the time his shift finally comes to an end at three in the morning he’s in dire need of alcohol and ends up staying out for another hour. He drinks with a few of the other club staff while they close up and tries incredibly hard not to look disgusted when they make him do a body shot of the chick behind the bar.

Mickey heads home only half-wasted and falls into bed, praying that he doesn’t have a splitting headache for his late-start nine o’clock shift tomorrow. Milkoviches don’t really get hangovers, but Mickey’s already tired and sore from a day of moving, so the last thing he wants is to wake up with a pounding head. He sets the alarm on his phone and kicks off his pants before falling asleep, not caring that he hasn’t even put sheets on his mattress yet. It’s warm enough that it doesn’t matter.

“WHAT THE FUCK ASSHOLE, I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE THE FUCKING TOILET ALONE!”

The shout shocks Mickey awake, sharp pain immediately shooting through his head. He groans pitifully and rolls over, ready to glare daggers at Mandy and tell her that he’s done fuck all to the toilet, but when he opens his eyes the door to his room is shut. Blinking slowly, eyes stinging despite the relative gloom of his room, Mickey frowns at the door. It’s not like Mandy to give him privacy; usually she’d have him in a headlock by now for fucking something up, but maybe this is one of the perks of having a new place. From outside his door there’s silence. Head pounding, he reaches out to check his phone just in case but it’s only just past seven.

Still a little confused but relatively pleased, Mickey rolls back over and nuzzles into his pillow, ready to sleep for another hour or so. The room is hot and stuffy – he hadn’t thought to open the window the night before – so he pulls his shirt off before really settling in.

“IT’S OVERFLOWING NOW, YOU DIPSHIT!”

Mickey’s eyes snap open and he can already feel the scowl on his face. The throbbing in his head, which had dulled, flares back up and Mickey grumbles unhappily. Mandy’s going to get a fucking boot in her ass in a seco-

“CARL, FOR FUCK’S SAKE, WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT REPORT CARDS IN THE TOILET?”

Carl?

_What the fuck?_

Mickey frowns and shoves himself up onto his elbows, the movement making his temples ache but not any more than an aspirin will fix. Turning towards his door, Mickey listens hard to try to figure out whom the fuck Mandy is talking to, but he can only hear music coming quietly from her room. It sounds like she’s listening to the same playlist she runs every morning when she gets ready for school, and there’s no banging or stomping that would indicate her being pissed off. Mickey frowns.

Dropping his head down, Mickey rolls his shoulders a little to try to ease the twinge in them and sits up to investigate. That’s when he finally hears it – muffled noises from his window, growing gradually louder.

“What the fuck?” Mickey mumbles to himself, clambering to his knees on his mattress on the floor to crack the curtains and throw the window open. A cool breeze rolls in, blessed relief from the growing heat of the room, but it brings with it the sound of voices.

“-did the exact same thing last year and we had to fork out two hundred bucks for a goddamn plumber!” a female voice is saying, half-frantic, half-pissed.

“It’ll go away, Fiona. Just give it a few days to disintegrate and stuff-” This voice is younger, a boy from the way his ‘a’s crack and squeak. He sounds petulant but the woman quickly cuts back in.

“I don’t give a shit, you fucked up the toilet, you’re sticking your hand in and un-fucking it up.” she says decisively, only making sharp, unhappy noises when the boy begins to protest.

From across the small space between Mickey’s window and the other house he can hear a door open, followed by the wet squelching of socked feet in water. There’s a moment of silence, then the sound of muttered curses and grunts as a splash indicates someone’s probably just stuck their hand in the toilet. The kid must be pretty young if his wrists are skinny enough to fit, Mickey thinks to himself, smirking a little at the mental image.

It’s almost enough to make him forget that he’s pissed about being woken up an hour earlier than he intended.

Scowl returning quickly, Mickey only bothers to throw on a clean tank top before he’s stomping downstairs for about four coffees and an aspirin. There’s no way he’s getting back to sleep with the way his head is starting to throb. Judging from the smirk Mandy throws him when he grouches into the kitchen, she can tell. Mickey just flips her off and steals the steaming mug she was stupid enough to leave on their rickety table, not even caring about the three sugars she must have added.

“Hey!” she protests, shoving the rest of a slice of toast in her mouth before trying to wrestle the coffee back. “Get your own, asshole!” Mandy says, spitting toast everywhere, but Mickey just skulls the rest and hands her back the empty mug with a grin. His tongue feels burnt, but it’s worth it for the glare Mandy levels him with. “Fuck you.”

Their toaster’s a piece of shit and Mickey pretty much ends up with char-grilled toast to go with his tap water and stolen, out-of-date jam. It only makes his mood shittier when he can’t find more than one aspirin, neither of them having thought to buy more. There’s hardly any food in the house, let alone medication. Mandy makes a note of it on a scrap of paper and shoves it into her pocket, promising she’ll grab the essentials on her way home from her summer classes.

“Buy fuckin’ earplugs too,” Mickey grumbles as she’s heading upstairs to finish getting ready for school, “The assholes next door were being loud as fuck this morning.” Mandy just rolls her eyes and keeps going, leaving Mickey to his burnt toast and runny jam. When she heads out with a too-cheery goodbye ten minutes later she makes sure to slam the door as loud as possible, the noise making Mickey’s head pound painfully.

Mickey hates his dumb ass little sister he thinks as he reaches for the mug of coffee she left him.

He works construction until five, almost nailing his hand to a wooden beam at one point he’s so god damn tired. By the time he gets home at five-thirty Mickey’s well and truly dead on his feet, the four hours of sleep he’d managed the night before only a distant memory. Lunch on the job usually consisted of a cheap sandwich from a nearby food truck, but with his head pounding and body aching that morning Mickey had forgotten his wallet. Now he’s starving, reheating the half-empty box of pizza from the night before and shoving the slices into his mouth before they’ve even started to cool. He figures his tongue will survive the burns, but his stomach is going to eat himself if he doesn’t get fed quickly. Music filtering down from upstairs tells him Mandy’s home.

Four slices and a guzzled beer later, Mickey stumbles upstairs to crash, barely bothering to kick off his boots before he’s spread-eagle on the bed. He’s still a bit ripe from the sweaty day’s work, but he figures it’s not really a problem considering he still hasn’t put sheets on his bed. A cool but light breeze is wafting in through his window, and Mickey feels his whole body go lax with it, asleep in minutes.

When he wakes up sticky with sweat a few hours later it’s not to the sound of his alarm. No, instead it’s two loud, male voices that have roused him. Mickey groans.

The room is sweltering despite the open window and he strips down to his boxers, knowing sleep is now a distant memory. Mickey checks his phone, but it’s only eight-thirty and he doesn’t need to be at the club until ten. For a brief moment he contemplates getting up and showering, maybe setting up his bedframe or at least putting sheets on his mattress before he heads out. But Mickey Milkovich is nothing if not a lazy fucker, so he just stretches across the bed and lets himself be distracted by the voices next door. The sound of a shower screeching as the water pressure is adjusted blocks out whatever the people are saying for a moment, but then it levels out and Mickey can make them out properly.

“So what, she just told you to fuck off? Never see her again?” asks one, the voice a little garbled and Mickey assumes whomever it belongs to must be the one in the shower. He sounds only a little younger then Mickey.

“Basically. I mean, after the whole Asian baby bullshit I wasn’t exactly keen to get involved again, but…” The second voice is a little deeper but clearer, trailing off and leaving the only sound the spray of the shower.

“Sorry, man.” shower-voice says again. There’s the sound of some bottles being jostled, the flick of a lighter.

“Yeah, whatever.” The other guy must be smoking because Mickey can smell the cigarette from here. Instantly he craves some nicotine himself, but Mandy has the box of smokes in her room and Mickey couldn’t be fucked getting up to get them. “What about you? Any splendid fuck ups in your love life?”

A wet laugh and the sound of the shower curtain being drawn back. “Nah,” shower-guy breathes, probably having just had a drag of the cigarette, “No more fuck ups since Kash fucked off. Relationships aren’t that easy to come by for people like me on the Southside.”

Mickey’s brow furrows for a moment and he puzzles at the words. Sure, ninety percent of the couples in this neighbourhood are either abusive, addicts or just plain fucked up, but this guy makes it sound like he wouldn’t be able to find someone even if he wanted to. Not that Mickey was thinking about some random dude’s relationship goals.

“Kash wasn’t a relationship.” The smoker says.

“You know what I mean.”

There’s the muted sound of someone calling out, probably from the lower level.

“Ah, duty calls.” the second guy says, followed by the sound of movement and the opening and closing of the bathroom door.

There’s a minute of relative silence except for the hiss of the shower and Mickey figures the entertainment’s over for the night. Not that it was particularly exciting, but he and Mandy can barely afford food, let alone cable, so he’ll take what he can get. Just as Mickey’s about to roll out of bed though, there’s a soft noise from outside and he shifts closer to the window to try to make it out.

For a second there’s nothing and he’s ready to think he imagined it when the sound comes again, low and bitten-off.

It’s a moan.

Mickey startles a little. The last time he heard a guy moan like that it had been because Mandy was watching gay porn in her room at the old house and the walls were too fucking thin. And, you know, when Mickey himself watches gay porn, hot and shameful in the dead of night. But this was the first time since then that Mickey had _unintentionally_ heard a guy moan, was the point. He feels himself heat a little when the sound comes again, breathy and halting like the guy is trying to be quiet. Despite a hot flush of humiliation Mickey instinctively leans a little closer to the window.

“ _Ah_ , fuck.”

The guy says it so softly Mickey is sure he wouldn’t have heard it if not for the way he’s pressed up to the wall now, as close to the window as he can be without actually leaning up to it. He’s pretty certain he’s only imagining the slick sounds of a hand on wet flesh, but that doesn’t stop heat from pooling in Mickey’s gut. He feels dirty. The soft noises are growing more frequent and Mickey can feel an edge of arousal start to colour his own cheeks, the mattress suddenly very welcoming and firm under his hips-

There’s a knock at his door and Mickey shoots up, reaching to bunch the sheets over his crotch before he remembers he hasn’t got any fucking sheets on the bed.

“Mick? You up?” Mandy asks, voice muffled through the door.

“Yeah,” he responds, hoping the roughness of his voice sounds more like he just woke up than he’s sporting a semi. “I’ll be out in a second.” At the sound of Mandy’s footsteps heading down the stairs Mickey runs fingers through his hair, probably working it into even more of a mess but not really caring.

_What the fuck, Milkovich?_

Not only had Mickey just been listening to his neighbour - his very male neighbour - jack off, but he was also about half a minute away from joining in and getting a hand on his own goddamn cock.

Mickey grimaces and pinches his thigh sharply, willing down the half-erection tenting his boxers. It’s just because he hasn’t gotten laid in months, Mickey tells himself as he stands and heads to the dresser for a fresh change of clothes. Sure, he fucked a few chicks while he was wasted at the Alibi last week, but he hasn’t had a dick in him for ages and his body is really starting to miss the feel. The thought makes shame boil in his gut, no matter how well he knows Terry can’t beat the shit out of him from wherever he is.

Maybe, Mickey thinks as he heads for the cramped bathroom for a shower, he’ll head over to Boystown when he gets some free time. There are a few shady joints where no one asks names or expects to be kissed on the mouth and Mickey’s been fucked up against alleys outside about half of them. Then again, Mickey rationalises, it’s not as if he’s going to be having any free time in the near future, so that’s probably just wishful thinking.

The water is lukewarm at best and it does nothing for his aching muscles, but it certainly prevents Mickey from getting it up again and jerking off to the memory of breathy grunts next door. He counts it as a win.

By the time he’s showered and dressed it’s almost time for him to get the L across town to the club. Swaggering downstairs for a last snack before he leaves, Mickey finds Mandy sprawled out on the couch with her laptop balanced on her knees. She’s scrolling through facebook and Mickey frowns as he takes a box of cereal down from one of the kitchen cupboards.

“Whose wifi you hack?” he asks mildly as he takes a handful of cereal and begins to eat it dry.

“Didn’t have to hack it.” Mandy replies, still focussed on her screen. She hits ‘like’ on a photo of a puppy. “Caught Mr. Father-of-three from next door watching me tan this afternoon and told him I’d report him to Tony unless he gave me his wifi password.”

“Nice. What is it?” Mickey says, pulling the iPhone he stole from one of Terry’s old clients out of his pocket. The back is cracked and there’s a tiny bit of blood still under the edges, but it works fine. He glances up when Mandy says nothing only to find her grinning at him over the back of the couch. “What?”

“You can have the password when you help me put my bedframe together.” she grumbles, “I still can’t figure out the instructions.”

“Fuck off.”

“Fine, enjoy jacking off to the view of your ceiling. This wifi’s unlimited, so I’ll let you know how good the HD porn is.” She’s scowling and Mickey groans because he knows he’s going to cave. Not just for the porn – he needs internet for other shit too – but seriously, if he’s getting worked up over the sound of his neighbour jacking it Mickey knows he’s in dire straights.

“Whatever.” he growls, already stashing the cereal back in the cupboard and heading for the door. Mandy grins and blows him a kiss. Snatching his keys off the table, Mickey flips her the bird and leaves, the sound of her laughter following him out into the balmy night.

It’s Friday, meaning Mickey’s shift is longer and he doesn’t get home until half past four, feeling more tired than he thinks he has in his entire life. Twice he’d had to go into the club for a shot, the blonde bartender eyeing him up appreciatively both times. He’d ignored her, too focussed on staying awake through his shift. For a second time Mickey collapses into bed and hopes to never have to get out of it again. Knowing it’s Saturday tomorrow only has him asleep faster than ever, the blessed promise of a long sleep-in lulling him into a dreamless slumber.

_“Debbie, I need to borrow some mascara!”_

Mickey smashes his face into his pillow and clamps his eyes shut. This can’t be happening. He will not be woken up again by his stupid, loud, annoying as fuck neig-

“CARL PUT THE GODDAMN KNIFE AWAY!”

Mickey’s ready to either sob or punch a hole in the wall. Considering the cost of damages if Tony sees it, Mickey passes up the latter and tries to burrow his head deeper into the pillow. He’d left his window open again and the sounds of someone being told off for leaving _‘a bloody army knife, really Ian?’_ lying around sail over the sill and descend on Mickey like the hellish songs of very poorly humoured angels.

Why, for the love of god, _why_ are his neighbours so fucking _noisy_?

He contemplates yelling out the window for them to shut the fuck up, but a tiny part of him worries it’ll get back to Tony and get them booted out. Mickey puts his head under the pillow instead, holding it down around his ears in the hopes of blocking out the sound of the ruckus next door. It only muffles it. He should have let Mandy have this stupid goddamn room, who gives a shit how much bigger it is than the other one (not much). At least now it makes sense as to why the rent was so low. It can’t be much past eight, giving Mickey a grand total of four hours sleep again, and after a while the exhaustion begins to drown out the noise.

Mickey’s just started to doze when a loud slam rings out, startling him back into awareness as the neighbours shut their bathroom door with way too much fervour. Even that doesn’t totally drown out the commotion. Growling, Mickey flips onto his back and holds his pillow over his face in the hopes that he’ll suffocate and escape the noise in death. The shower next door squeals and Mickey thrashes angrily on his bare mattress. Halfway through his plans on how to dispose of multiple bodies (because he’s already heard four different people in that godforsaken bathroom) Mickey yanks his pillow from over his head to avoid actually smothering himself.

Of course, that means that he can now hear the muffled noises of someone jerking off in the shower next door. By the sounds of things it’s the same guy as the night before.

“Fuck.” Mickey breathes, because this time he knows he’s not imagining the slick sound of skin on wet skin. Those familiar little moans are floating through his window and Mickey, angry, sleep-deprived Mickey says fuck it. If he’s going to be up too fucking early for his liking, he may as well make good use of his time. It’s not as if he’s ever going to know the guy, Mickey tells himself, so really it’s not _that_ weird.

The black jeans he wears to work at the club are loose enough for him to slip a hand in, but Mickey goes to the minimal trouble of taking them off anyway, only cupping himself through his boxers when he’s kicked the denim away. He’s already sporting morning wood, and with the way the guy next door’s breath is hitching Mickey doesn’t have much trouble getting himself properly hard. For a few minutes he keeps it all over the clothes, just squeezing himself through the thin fabric of his boxers. It’s been a while though, and soon there’s a small wet patch soaking through where the head of his cock is straining at the cotton.

A bitten-back groan filters in from next door and Mickey gives in, shoving his hand unceremoniously into his boxers to jerk himself off. It’s hard to hear exactly what’s going on next door over the sound of the shower, but the ragged breathing and half-moans are enough for Mickey as he takes himself in hand. He gives himself a few light strokes, thumbing across the head to spread the substantial amount of pre-come there along his cock, tugging at his foreskin as he goes. He’s always been a bit of a leaker, cockhead wet at the barest stimulation, and while it can be embarrassing as fuck with a partner, it makes jacking off without lube so much easier.

The guy next door doesn’t sound like he’s having any trouble if the slowly increasing gasps are anything to go by. Mickey starts stroking himself properly, fist tight as he pumps his cock. It’s been a while since he’s touched himself like this, and with the way his stress levels have been building over the past few days Mickey’s close to the edge faster than usual. Toying at his foreskin and frenulum, Mickey shuffles a little closer to the window to better hear what’s going on next door. He can definitely make out the wet sound of the guy jacking himself off now, and among the litany of ‘ _ah_ ’s and quiet grunts there are a few low ‘ _fuck_ ’s that set Mickey’s nerves ablaze. The guy has a hot voice, Mickey will give him that much.

As much as he’d like to get a few fingers in himself, Mickey doesn’t have any lube handy, so he settles for running his other hand down his navel to lazily roll his balls. He’s close, can feel the orgasm building as he begins to thrust up into his own hand, pre-come dripping over his fingers even as he tightens his fist around himself. Next door the gasps have gotten louder and Mickey’s pretty sure it’s one of the hottest things he’s ever heard. Letting his eyes flutter shut, Mickey tries to imagine what the guy might look like – Mickey prefers muscles and a pretty face, so he imagines strong thighs and nice eyes, a soft pink mouth parted around the low moans in his ears.

“Oh, _oh, fuck_ ,” shower-guy gasps, voice even deeper than usual as he draws out the last syllable. It’s the only warning Mickey gets before he hears the punched-out noise that means the guy is coming. The mere thought of it has Mickey jerking himself faster, tugging at his balls and biting his lip until he’s coming too, staining his boxers.

When Mickey lets his eyes flick open he’s breathing heavily, thankful for the sound of the shower that probably means the guy next door can’t hear it. There’s come dripping hot and wet over his hand but Mickey carelessly wipes it on the inside of his boxers, running firm fingers over his inner thighs just for the little aftershocks it send thrilling through him. The sound of the shower screeching off brings him back to himself, and Mickey only waits long enough to hear the guy next door shut the bathroom door before he rolls out of bed.

“You look like shit.” Mandy says when he stumbles downstairs twenty minutes later. She has textbooks spread across the table and is eating a bowl of cereal over her English homework. Mickey feels like shit as well as looking like it, so he flips her off and takes the glass of coffee she offers him. “All three of our mugs are dirty.” she says when he raises a brow.

“I’ll go to the store later.” he says, opening the fridge and rummaging through its limited contents. There are two blueberry muffins at the back that Mandy must have brought home from work. He stuffs one in his mouth whole and grabs the other, bumping the door shut with his hip.

“Get the cheap ones, the mugs with the fancy designs and shit are too expensive.”

“You don’t actually think I’m paying for ‘em, right?” For that Mandy looks at him disapprovingly before shrugging and going back to her homework.

Having to actually pay rent for the first time in their lives was going to be tough regardless, but even when they were living under Terry’s fists they had never had to worry about food. They’d always been below the poverty line, Mickey knows that much, but figures they hadn’t felt it as keenly as they do now. Being poor fucking sucks, but being poorer than you were already? Worse by far. Mickey knows he’s going to be shoplifting a lot of shit for the next few weeks.

While he plans out a schedule to rotate stealing from store to store, Mandy’s stuck on an English question and is chewing at her lip. It’s endearing so Mickey punches her in the arm when he goes to refill his glass of coffee. The clock on the microwave says it’s not even nine-thirty. Mickey starts into the second muffin and figures he’ll go back to bed for a few hours before he goes out for food and shit.

Both he and Mandy jump when the doorbell rings.

They share a shocked glance, neither entirely certain of who the fuck would be at their door. It’s not as if they had told anyone where they were moving, and Tony didn’t have an inspection planned for another month. For a brief, terrifying moment Mickey can see Terry at the door. He thinks back to every bone his father had ever broken, every pistol-whipping, and shudders. The bell rings again. Mandy raises her eyebrows expectantly, though the twist of her mouth gives away her own uncertainty.

“What?” Mickey snaps incredulously.

“Dude, answer the fucking door.” she replies, looking more than a little uneasy. Mickey gestures at himself, wearing nothing but boxers and an old tank top, but Mandy only glares.

“Fine, _whatever_.” Mickey growls, slamming down his glass of coffee a little too hard against the counter. He shoves the last of the blueberry muffin in his mouth as he heads into the narrow hall, eyes flicking to the metal baseball bat he keeps by the door. It’s nothing in comparison to the drawer full of guns, brass knuckles and tasers upstairs, but he knows how to use it. Mickey’s fingers flex and he opens the door.

“Hi!”

It’s most certainly not Terry.

“What the fuck?” Mickey grumbles, staring at the small group in front of him. He knows his face is probably a terrible mix of shock and discontent, but seriously, _what the fuck?_

On the tiny porch are two kids and a guy who’s probably only a year or two younger than Mickey. The smallest kid is a little black boy who’s grinning up at Mickey, his hand tucked into that of a ginger girl with pink cheeks and a soft face. She’s smiling in her little green sundress and is probably about twelve or thirteen, but she looks relatively harmless. It was her that had spoken before, but she doesn’t seem put off by Mickey’s less than polite reply, already speaking again.

“Welcome to the neighbourhood. Liam here,” she gestures to the black boy, “Wanted to come over and say hi to our new neighbours. I’m Debbie.” She holds out a hand to him. Mickey raises a brow but doesn’t extend his own hand, hyperaware of the ‘FUCK U-UP’ tattooed across his knuckles. It’s not that he doesn’t want to offend any delicate sensibilities, he just knows recognisable tattoos make people easier to identify. Debbies’ smile falters a little and the tall guy next to her steps forward, taking control of the situation.

“Hey, sorry about this.” he says and Mickey’s head snaps up, staring at the guy’s freckled skin and red hair. Bottle-green eyes look back at him, gauging the situation, but that’s not what caught Mickey’s attention.

_He knows that voice._

“Our brother really did want to come over and say hi, but we see that you’re busy, so we’ll get going.” He bends to pick up the toddler, Liam, biceps flexing impressively as he does so and Mickey finds himself suddenly self-conscious standing there in his boxers. The guy’s head is level with his crotch before he straightens back up. Mickey shifts and hopes the prickling at the back of his neck hasn’t turned into an actual blush. Debbie looks a little put out but Liam is twisting in the tall guy’s arms to peer around Mickey and into the house. It’s then that Mickey realises he hasn’t said anything else, and while usually he wouldn’t give a shit, for some reason he feels like his silence may seem guilty.

“Nah, it’s cool.” he gets out, trying not to look at the way the other guy’s broad chest fills out his tight shirt. “Mickey.” he grunts, sticking out a tattooed hand. The guy’s handsome face is cautious for a moment and Micky knows Debbie is looking at him suspiciously, but then the guy smiles and it’s- well, Mickey knows whose lips he’ll be picturing next time he gets blown.

“Ian.” the guy says casually, taking Mickey’s hand and shaking it firmly. Mickey tries not to think about how broad and strong Ian’s hands are – he can save that for another time, preferably when there are no children present. Then Ian’s pulling away, Liam mumbling something about ice cream in his ear. “Anyway, we gotta get going. Just figured we’d say hi.” he smiles, already heading away. Debbie’s still giving Mickey the stink eye but little Liam waves happily.

“Yeah. Uh, see ya round or whatever.” Mickey says and Ian smiles and nods before the three are heading down the porch stairs and away. Mickey hears Debbie rabbiting on about sexism and misogyny, but he’s not really paying attention. From the doorway he has an amazing view of Ian’s ass in the board shorts he’s wearing, and he doesn’t head back inside until they’ve disappeared from view down the street. Probably off to get Liam’s ice cream, Mickey figures. When he eventually does shut the door and turn back into the house Mandy’s leaning against the wall, one eyebrow raised in incredulity.

“So that was fucking weird.” she says bluntly, clearly referring to Mickey’s behaviour. “I’ll have to check the muffins at work for LSD or something.”

“Fuck off.”

“At least now I know we have one hot neighbour,” Mandy smirks, “Can I fuck him?”

Sneering, Mickey flips her off and heads up to his room.

Shutting the door and flopping onto his bed, Mickey stares at the ceiling while he tries to reconcile Ian’s young face and strong body with the noises Mickey had heard just that morning. Actually knowing what the neighbour whose voice you jerked off to looks like makes it a little weirder, Mickey finds.

Not that it’s a deterrent, really. If anything, knowing what Ian looks like is actually only going to make hearing him jack it hotter. Those broad shoulders and toned arms are certainly to Mickey’s liking, and the freckles are… nice, actually. He likes the freckles. Still, that doesn’t make it any less awkward that he just spoke to his hot as fuck neighbour not even an hour after coming to the sound of his voice.

For now Mickey’s too tired to deal with awkward though, and he’s going to get the sleep he deserves if it goddamn kills him. He once again considers getting up to put sheets on his bed, but he doesn’t want to tempt the blessed silence from his window, so he doesn’t.

He sleeps until past noon and even then he’s surprised when the bathroom next door remains quiet. Not that he’s ungrateful – frankly Mickey’s over the moon – but if he’s also quietly looking forward to the next time he hears his Ian in there? Well, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the case of this fic the Gallaghers and Milkoviches have never met, so neither Mickey nor Mandy know who Ian and his family are apart from being noisy neighbours. The fic looks set to have three chapters but they're pretty loosely planned as of yet, so please leave comments letting me know what enjoyed and you'd like to see!


	2. Chapter 2

Mickey and Mandy quickly settle into a routine over the next few weeks.

Every morning when Mickey comes downstairs Mandy has a steaming cup of coffee waiting for him, smirking at his atrocious bedhead over her own mug. They eat breakfast together in companionable silence before Mandy heads off to her summer classes or work, sometimes going as far as to give Mickey a quick, one-armed hug as she heads out the door. Mickey works the construction site from nine to five, then comes home to Mandy cooking pasta or reheating pizza and they channel surf for half an hour while they eat. She’s not the best cook, and her recipes are fairly limited, but Mickey always does the dishes in thank before heading upstairs for a few hours sleep before he needs to get to the club. Sometimes Mandy waits up for him, but he doesn’t mind when he comes home and the living room is empty of his sister. Still, he always goes up to her room, pushes the door open just a crack to check on her, Mandy’s face so much gentler in sleep. Then he heads to his room and collapses into bed.

By the time the weather has grown truly sweltering in the height of July the tiredness has seeped into Mickey’s bones, and every week is a test on endurance trying to make it to the promise of proper sleep on the weekends. He’s at least set up his bedframe and put sheets on the bed, which makes things more comfortable but also means that when he rolls so that his back is to the door his body is just about level with the window.

Oh, how Mickey hates that window.

The first week in the house had been bad, the Gallaghers’ noise frequently waking Mickey in the early morning or evening, but at least then he had been exhausted enough to sleep through it sometimes. Now though, despite being no less weary, Mickey’s become hypersensitive to noise in his sleep. Part of it is fear, not that Mickey would ever admit it, because no matter how far away Terry may be a part of Mickey is always scared that he’ll come back. The other part? Well, maybe there are a few benefits to the stupid window.

Benefits like blinking awake at six in the morning on a weekday to the sound of Ian Gallagher wanking.

Mickey gets off more times in those first three weeks in the house than he has all year. At first he feels a weird kind of guilt when he pictures Ian’s strong arms flexing or imagines how his broad palms and long fingers would look running the length of his cock. Objectively Mickey knows he shouldn’t be getting off to the thought and sound of his neighbour, but no matter how flushed he is with shame, Mickey can never keep his hand from slipping into his boxers to tug and squeeze at himself. It’s only when he hears Ian jerking off twice in one day (and Jesus, the kid must be really sexually frustrated given that Mickey hears him come almost every other day) and Mickey is honestly worried about chafing his dick that he decides it has to end.

That is, until he swipes some lube during his weekly ‘shopping trip’ and ends up slipping two fingers into himself when he hears Ian’s muffled moans the day after.

Mickey is a goddamn hot mess and he knows it.

All voyeuristic tendencies aside, however, the Gallaghers are still noisy as fuck and it’s really messing with Mickey’s already shot to hell sleeping patterns. Managing on two four-hour blocks of sleep a day is hard enough, but when he’s jolted awake by the sound of screaming or laughter in the next door bathroom (and once he’s pretty sure he hears someone trying to flush another report card down the toilet) the dark circles under his eyes may as well be tattooed on for how fucking tired Mickey is.

Mandy notices, of course, watches him with a little frown and a crease between her brows when he zombie-walks into the kitchen one morning. It’s particularly bad today, whatever feud is happening in the Gallagher house being loud enough to travel into the Milkovich kids’ kitchen, though it’s too muffled to hear what’s being said.

“You sure you can’t take a day off?” Mandy asks for about the fourth time in as many days, eyes trained on the way Mickey can barely lift his coffee to his lips. Mickey snorts.

“And what, get tossed out on the street when we can’t make fuckin’ rent?” he asks, moving to rummage through the cupboards to find the Lucky Charms he lifted a few days ago. It takes a little longer than he’d like, Mickey refusing to stand on tiptoe to actually be tall enough to look into the cupboard while Mandy’s still watching him.

“I could always try to get Tony to lower our rent.” Mandy shrugs, and Mickey’s eyebrows rise sharply. “What? It’s not like it’d be the first time I fucked a guy for a discount,” she adds sarcastically, but Mickey knows he’s not imagining the edge of something sharper in her voice. He flops down at the table to make his cereal.

“Fuck off. Little blonde Christian boy Tony doesn’t seem like the kind, not even with your charms.” Mickey snarks back, focussing on his breakfast before adding through a mouth of Lucky Charms, “Besides, we moved here so you don’t have to do that kinda shit anymore.” It’s coughed out gruffly but Mandy’s eyes go soft when he says it and in her little pyjama shorts and mismatched socks she looks like the little sister Mickey remembers from when they were kids.

For a while they just hover quietly, Mandy sipping at her coffee while Mickey crunches through his breakfast. The only noise is that of the Gallaghers' next door and Mickey’s pretty sure the yelling is about the second report card he’d heard flushed down the toilet. When Mandy finishes her coffee she heads upstairs to finish getting ready for class, leaving Mickey to clean up his bowl and spoon and pop a few Aspirin for the headache he can already feel building behind his eyes.

When Mandy appears a few minutes later she wanders over to where he’s standing by the sink, tucking her chin over his shoulder. “I’ll see if I can get more shifts at The Waffle House. Maybe get ahead on rent.” she says, then presses a fleeting kiss to his cheek. It’s the most affectionate thing that’s passed between the two in… Mickey’s not sure how long, shocked when he turns around to see her grinning at him. “And I’ll se what I can do about the neighbours.” she adds, tucking a butterfly knife into her shorts deliberately, “The cute one’s in my history class.”

Mickey just blinks and watches her saunter out the door. Then he grumbles upstairs, taking a brief shower before changing into his work gear. Lingering in his room for a little longer than he needs to, Mickey fiddles with his sheets and pillows in the hopes of hearing the familiar screech of the neighbour’s shower and the breathy moans that mean Ian’s the one in it. The only thing he hears is muffled yelling though, and when he locks the door to the house a few minutes later he figures Ian probably already left for the summer class he shares with Mandy. Mickey shoves his keys into his pocket and goes to work grumpily.

All day Mickey struggles to stay awake, but it’s Friday tomorrow and he can almost taste the weekend when he finally clocks out at five. He walks the twenty minutes to get home, only using the L when he needs to get to the club in the city or he’s ready to outrun fucking train cops for jumping the turnstiles. Tonight’s shift starts a little earlier than usual, some fancy even meaning Mickey has to be in at nine, so he figures he’ll be able to squeeze in two or three hours of sleep before he heads out again. Maybe they’ll even be uninterrupted, considering how Mandy had promised to sort out the stupid fucking neighbours.

So when Mickey arrives home to find one of the Gallaghers sprawled out on his lumpy couch he just about loses his shit. The fact that it’s a very ginger, very male, very hot Gallagher is probably the only reason Mickey doesn’t start throwing punches.

“Dude, what the fuck?” he snarls, Ian startling where he must not have noticed Mickey come in. The way he twists to face Mickey pulls at his tight shirt in all the right ways, stretching it across his pecs in a way that really pisses Mickey off. Because Mickey wants to stare but he really fucking shouldn’t want to stare. “The fuck are you doing in my house?”

“Oh, hey Mickey.” Ian seems to relax when he sees who it is, which irritates Mickey to no end because his presence usually has the opposite effect. “Mandy invited me over.” he offers by way of explanation just as Mandy wanders in with a plate of Pizza Rolls.

“Sup.” she throws to Mickey before settling onto the couch at Ian’s side, her bare thighs pressed close to his. A look of mild discomfort crosses Ian’s face and Mickey’s quietly pleased with it, the ginger probably feeling awkward getting all up in Mandy’s shit now that her brother’s home. “Ian’s hanging here till his family sort their shit.” Mandy adds, but leaves it at that.

Mickey’s bed is calling him, but so is the smell of fresh pizza rolls and the opportunity to annoy the fuck out of Mandy. She had promised to sort the noisy Gallagher issue but this looked more like sorting the ‘I want to fuck the freckle-face’ issue (that yeah, Mickey totally shares) so he figures she’s earned a little payback. And, y’know, Ian’s kind of… tempting.

“Shove over faggots.” Mickey grunts, kicking off his boots before wedging himself onto the couch at Ian’s other side. Another uncomfortable look crosses Ian’s face, but it seems to be more about what Mickey said that what he did, so Mickey just grabs a handful of Pizza Rolls and begins to stuff his face.

From the other end of the couch Mandy glares, but then she starts up some shooter game on the Xbox Mickey nicked from some second-hand store a few months back. At his side Mickey is hyperaware of every place where his body touches Ian’s; the brush of their thighs and the way the Ian’s freckly forearms bump Mickey’s from time to time. When Mickey steals Ian’s controller he doesn’t complain, just smirks down at Mickey a little and relinquishes it, Mickey’s tattooed fingers burning where they brush Ian’s.

Tattooed fingers that Mickey has wrapped around his cock to the sound of Ian’s laboured breathing.

“Your family’s loud as fuck.” Mickey blurts.

Ian grimaces but looks amused, “Yeah, I know. Sorry if we’re too noisy, I didn’t think the sound would carry that bad or anything.” Even as he says it Mickey’s watching his mouth, the way it moves around the words. The controller in Mickey’s hands vibrates roughly as his character dies onscreen.

“Nah, my bedroom window is just right fuckin’ next to your bathroom,” he grumbles. It makes Ian actually turn his head to look at mickey, eyebrow arched a little but not looking too concerned. Which he shouldn’t be, it’s not like he could know Mickey’s been jerking off to the sound of him in said bathroom.

“What, so you can hear everything that goes on in there?”

“Yeah, and the rest of your house.” Mickey replies, resisting the urge to squirm and not quite meeting Ian’s eyes. Next to him Ian makes a quizzical noise.

“Did you hear Carl trying to flush his report card down the toilet?” Ian grins and Mickey elbows him sharply in the ribs. It only makes the redhead laugh, twisting away from Mickey and closer to Mandy, though he’s settled back against Mickey’s side in a heartbeat. Mandy just mutters that Mickey’s ruining their chill time.

Sitting so close on the couch it’s impossible for Mickey not to notice how strong Ian’s thighs look, even under the fabric of his board shorts. When he tries to wiggle his phone out of his pocket the shorts hitch up, exposing light muscle under fine blonde hairs. Mickey tries to look away, to be distracted by something else, but Ian’s wrists are surprisingly delicate and his fingers are so long and careful. Ian’s fingers are longer than Mickey’s, thinner but not too bony. The kinds of things those fingers could probably do…

Ian’s voice is deep when he laughs at Mandy’s less than polite game commentary and Mickey startles, turning back to pay close attention to the zombie heads exploding on screen. He really doesn’t want to pop a boner while he’s cockblocking his sister. That would be weird.

It’s not until Mickey gets up to change for work at the club a few hours later that he realises just how much closer Ian was leaning to him than Mandy. He frowns, shrugging it off as he goes to shower. The knowledge that Ian is just downstairs doesn’t stop Mickey from jacking off in the shower to the memory of his strong arms at Mickey’s side. If he imagines it’s Ian’s fingers tracing teasingly over his hole when he comes, well.

Mickey knows what he wants, even if he shouldn’t want it.

He ends up getting to the club ten minutes late after Mandy cornered him by the door and explained in no uncertain terms just where she’d put her boot if he cockblocked her again. Fortunately she just thinks he’s being a douchebag, doesn’t catch on to the real reason Mickey would let himself wedge so close to Ian on the couch. Still, he feels a little offbeat and misses his usual train, probably only managing to keep his job because the bartender covers for him when he’s late.

Skipping sleep to fuck with Mandy was a terrible idea but Mickey doesn’t really regret it, even when Carlos, the burly bouncer he works with, slaps Mickey awake for the third time.

“Eyes open, newbie.” Carlos grunts, nodding towards a scuffle that has broken out a little further down the line outside the club. “Get in a few good hits to keep you alive.”

Mickey’s fairly certain he bites clear through his lip when one of the frat boys lands a punch on him, but that just gives him an excuse to really smack the guys down. For some reason the image of Mandy cuddled up to Ian’s side flashes in Mickey’s mind, but he ignores it in favour of beating the shit out of the two trust fund assholes. One’s bleeding onto his stupid white polo and the other’s whining about lawsuits while he clutches at a broken nose when the police arrive. Carlos handles the fuzz because his rap sheet is shorter than Mickey’s despite being twice his age.

Like a crappy rerun, Mickey returns home to fall into bed and sleep like the dead. He takes the time to check his lip in the bathroom mirror, frowning when he notices a blue towel hanging on the door that he doesn’t recognise. When he peeks into Mandy’s room for the nightly check-in he’d never admit to, Mickey finds out why he’s never seen the towel before. It’s not theirs.

On Mandy’s twin bed the two of them are curled together, Mandy’s back to the door and her head tucked under Ian’s chin while they breathe in synchronisation. Suddenly Mickey’s aware of just how short Mandy’s pyjama shorts are. For a moment he considers waking them, maybe giving Ian a good scare with the brass knuckles in his top dresser drawer before throwing the ginger punk out. At least Ian’s still dressed in the shirt and shorts he arrived in. Maybe he won’t use the knuckles.

Mickey takes a few hesitant steps into the room, but then Mickey notices their hands, twined together and loose on the small patch of bed between them. Ian’s face is soft and his eyelashes are impossibly fair against his cheeks, such a contrast to Mandy’s black hair – their mother’s hair.

Mickey only lets himself think about why the whole situation really pisses him off for a few brief seconds.

Turning on his heel Mickey doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him, just closes himself in his room and strips to his boxers before climbing into bed. Sleep doesn’t come as easily as he’d like, the image of Ian’s pale wrists and freckled neck lingering in the back of Mickey’s mind until sheer exhaustion drags him under.

The next morning Mickey wakes to the sound of a shower running. It takes him a few minutes to realise that it’s his shower rather than the Gallaghers' and his brow creases as he rolls over in bed, the sheets twisted and sticky around his thighs. Mandy never showers in the morning. Mickey checks his phone, but it’s only a few minutes before his alarm was going to go off anyway so he just shrugs and wanders downstairs, hoping Mandy made coffee before she showered.

Safe to say he’s confused as fuck when Mandy’s sitting at the kitchen table with a magazine spread out in front of her. Glancing confusedly from Mandy’s bowed head to the ceiling, it takes Mickey a solid two minutes to figure out who’s in the shower.

“Why is the ginger still in our house?”

“Because his family are all at each other’s throats. Something about his brother not wanting to accept a scholarship or something, I don’t know.” Mandy turns the page of her magazine. “I told him he could crash here until the yelling stops.”

“The fuck I say about screwing the neighbours, Mandy?” he scowls, stomping across to the half-empty pot of coffee. It’s only lukewarm but he’s too shitty to make a new pot or anything.

“I didn’t screw him, assface. We’re friends.” Mandy retorts, not glancing up, “Besides, Ian wasn’t actually on that list.”

“Yeah, sure; you didn’t screw him and our dad loved us.” Mickey grimaces through a sip of coffee but Mandy only looks at him to shoot an icy glare. Upstairs the shower squeaks and they can make out the sound of Ian opening and closing the glass door. “I saw you two all fuckin’ cuddly and shit last night.”

“You don’t have to fuck someone for that. It’s none of your business anyway, why do you give such a shit?” Her eyes have narrowed in suspicion so Mickey just throws back the rest of his tepid coffee and makes for the stairs.

“I don’t.”

Ian’s coming out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist when Mickey reaches the landing and he tosses Mickey a smile before heading into Mandy’s room. His back is fair and wet, smattered with freckles across his shoulder blades and Mickey can’t quite look away until Ian’s shut the door behind him. Mickey doesn’t give a shit how he smells, he refuses to shower after Ian’s just been in there, naked and dripping. He absently wonders if Ian used his soap instead of Mandy’s floral shit and the thought makes him shiver.

When Mickey leaves for work twenty minutes later Ian is wandering around the kitchen with a cigarette between his lips and Mickey has to get the fuck out before thoughts of those lips wrapped around something else overwhelm him. Later that day he almost nails his hand to a wooden beam because he’s too busy thinking about how Ian might look while he’s getting blown to pay attention to the goddamn nail gun.

Ian Gallagher is becoming a major fucking problem.

It’s not until Mickey’s half way home that his god-awful luck changes with Manny, the guy who runs the club across town, calls to tell Mickey he has the night off. It’s only one shift and Mickey’s still on for the rest of the weekend, but the promise of a full night’s sleep is more satisfying than every orgasm Mickey has ever had combined. Well… kind of.

Feeling celebratory, Mickey stops by the Kash and Grab just as it’s closing, piling chips, soda, beer, a whole range of sweets and two frozen pizzas into an empty cardboard box. He bares his teeth at the scrawny kid at the counter, clearly a newbie if the terrified look on his face is anything to go by, and leaves.

Fortunately the house is lacking in a particular redhead when Mickey gets home, so he stashes the food in the fried and cupboards and sticks the pizzas in the piece of shit oven. It smells like burning plastic but it works all right. While they cook Mickey showers, figuring that Mandy would be less that thrilled with his aroma considering it had been over a day since he last washed. He turns slowly under the steaming hot water, the crappy water pressure made up for in just how scalding Mickey can make it.

Swivelling to rinse his back, Mickey catches sight of the blue towel still slung over the hook on the back of the bathroom door. He grimaces at it before flipping it off and turning back to let the water run over his face. Fucking Ian Gallagher, coming into Mickey’s house and leaving his shit everywhere, using the hot water Mickey pays for.

Of course, thinking about Ian using the shower leads to Mickey thinking about Ian _in_ the shower. He can remember how Ian’s broad shoulders glistened with water this morning, the easy musculature of his pale back begging for angry red scratches running down it. The towel had hung low on his hips, those little dimples above his ass just visible over the edge of the blue fabric, and Mickey finds it all to easy to imagine the firm ass beneath. Even Gallagher’s fucking legs were nice, lean and strong, like he could wrap Mickey’s legs around his waist and hold him up to fuck him against a wall.

Mickey shivers.

He’s already halfway hard, cock twitching in interest. As much as it pisses him off, there’s no denying that Mickey’s hot for his loud-family-having, probably straight, hot-water-stealing neighbour. Grunting unhappily, Mickey reaches down to take himself in hand, the noise turning low as he strokes himself to full hardness. Usually he only gets off to the sound of Ian wanking – simply out of convenience, Mickey tells himself – but he can remember the sounds well enough to have his hips twitching forward in minutes. The memory of Ian’s naked torso certainly doesn’t hinder him. What it does do, actually, is make Mickey realise that Ian was naked right in this shower not twelve hours ago. He has to brace a hand against the tiles to keep from falling over.

It’s easy really, once Mickey’s got a hand on himself, to give in to his every fantasy of Ian. Foremost in his mind is that of actually getting fucked by the guy, feeling the weight of Ian’s bulk at his back, the way Ian’s strong thighs would slap the back of his. Getting fucked by Ian Gallagher would be a fucking wet dream come true. But there are other things too, bobbing around in Mickey’s mind as he thrusts into his palm, hot water cascading over his head and shoulders and dripping from his eyelashes. He imagines what it would be like to go down on Ian, to blow him until he’s twitching and restless, hands tight in Mickey’s dark hair. Or to rut against him, through their boxers or in nothing at all, using the sheer pressure of the other’s hips to get off.

Mickey imagines what it would be like to have Ian Gallagher rim him, imagines that pink, pink mouth on his ass and a wet tongue against his hole.

Mickey comes, spurting hot and thick against the tiles as he moans.

“Fuck.” he breathes. Stupid fucking Ian and his stupid fucking ability to get Mickey horny even when Mickey expressly doesn’t want to be horny. Or, you know, just doesn’t want to be jerking off to the thought of his neighbour. Who is apparently now Mandy’s best friend forever and fuck buddy. Mickey grumbles to himself and gets out of the shower.

Mandy’s comes in the door just as Mickey meanders downstairs, the lower level of the house now smelling like peperoni and cheese as well as the weird burning plastic oven scent. She dumps her bag at the kitchen table and crouches down to look through the glass oven door.

“What’s the occasion?” she asks, straightening up, “You never cook anything that can’t go in the microwave before a shift.”

“Got the night off.” Mickey grins, taking out two beers from the fridge and handing one to Mandy. She eyes the label but cracks it open on the countertop, taking a long swig before wandering into the living room to flick on the TV. “No firecrotch tonight?” Mickey calls, rooting through the kitchen drawers for an oven mitt.

“Nah, his brother got his shit sorted.” Mandy replies as the loud noises of an action movie filter through to the kitchen. Mickey’s only a little disappointed.

The pizzas are slightly burnt around one edge, the oven’s heating uneven, so he sticks them onto two large plates and carries them into the living room. He hasn’t even flopped down beside Mandy before she’s folding a piece in half and shoving it in her mouth.

“That’s hot.”

“Yeah, but I’m not a pussy.” Mandy says, taking a large mouthful of cold beer before ripping into the peperoni pizza again.

“Fuck off.” Mickey grunts before he squishes two pieces of cheese pizza together and takes a massive bite out of the resulting pizza sandwich. His tongue burns but Mickey pays close attention to the explosions onscreen and works through the pain. Beside him Mandy laughs. “So what’s up with you and that kid anyway? One second he’s just a neighbour you wanna fuck, the next you’re fucking holding hands and cuddling and shit? He braid your hair too?”

Mandy raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“What?” Mickey spits.

“Nothing.” she takes another bite of her pizza, “Just not used to the whole ‘caring big brother’ thing.” Mickey scowls and flips her off, stuffing his mouth to give his face something to do other than make an embarrassing expression. He’s always been closer with Mandy that their other brothers are, but being an older brother isn’t really something to fuss over when you’re the youngest of about seven ‘older brothers’. Still, Mickey really does care about Mandy, as stupid and fucking soppy as it sounds.

“Forget it,” he grunts, snatching up another slice of pizza. Half the topping slips off and he swears while Mandy laughs.

“It’s cool. Ian and I are just friends, he’s in my history summer class.” she shrugs as she takes another swig of beer, “He threw off our creepy teacher who kept grabbing my ass and suggesting extra credit points.”

Mickey feels his lip curl back in disgust. A part of him is grateful Mandy’s got someone to look out for her and sticking up to old men who want to touch shit they’re not allowed to touch. Another part is pissed that he didn’t get the opportunity to bash the fucker’s skull in himself.

“I already told you we’re not fucking, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Mandy adds with exasperation, clearly misinterpreting Mickey’s look of irritation. “You don’t have to threaten to break bones if he breaks my heart.” she grins and Mickey gets her in a headlock in seconds, ruffling her hair viciously while she squirms and yells.

“Mickey, _fuck off!_ ” she wails, arms flapping as she tries to hit him back. She goes for an elbow to the crotch but Mickey twists and she gets his thigh instead, though it’s not that much more pleasant.

“Stop being a fuckin’ sap and maybe I will.”

“Fuck you, asshole!” Mandy retorts, trying to turn her head enough to bite and-

_SMASH!_

The sound of glass shattering on the second floor sobers the two instantly, both freezing where they’re contorted to wrestle each other. In a heartbeat they spring apart, Mickey going straight for the metal bat by the door and gesturing Mandy towards the kitchen.

“Get as many knives as you can and stay by the back door.” Mickey whispers sharply, ears pricked for any sound from upstairs. Terry was always a loud walker, never really got involved in the business of breaking and entering, but Uncle Ronnie was a different story. Thin and fast as a greyhound, the man could be in and out without disturbing the dust in the air – if Terry had roped him into finding Mickey and Mandy they didn’t stand a chance. The second floor is silent.

“Be careful.” Mandy replies quietly, already snatching up the largest knives in the kitchen and moving to the back door. The siblings look at each other for a long moment before Mickey heads up the stairs.

The second floor is dark, the doors to the bedrooms and the bathroom all shut, but Mickey’s eyes don’t take long to adjust. He skips the creaky top step and hesitates, just able to pick up the sound of muffled voices from his room. Now that he thinks about it, the sound had come from his room and Mickey figures that it was probably his bedroom window that had been smashed. Strange, that Ronnie would come in through the upper level, but Mickey’s heart is thundering in his chest and his fight or flight instincts are taking over.

A part of Mickey had figured Terry would come back, no matter how greatly he wishes the old fuck’s absence meant he’s dead. Mickey grips the bat a little tighter. God, how he wishes it was a gun.

Inching towards his bedroom door, it’s only when Mickey’s right by the handle that he can begin to make out the voices within.

“…can make it look like an accident.”

Fuck. Mickey’s palms are sweaty but he steels himself. If he could get in quick, maybe get a few good swings in first, Mandy would hear the noise and probably be able to be out the back door and down the street before whoever was in Mickey’s room even thought to look for her. He reaches for the handle.

“How do you make a fucking ninja star look like an accident?”

All Mickey can think is _‘Ninja star, what the fuck?’_ before he’s slamming the door open and bursting into the room, bat swinging wildly and hitting-

No one.

Even in the relative gloom Mickey can tell that the room is completely empty. He pivots, eyes darting from corner to corner and behind the door but he’s the only one there. Just to be sure he paces to the closet, flinging the doors open to find only his clothes.

“Fiona’s going to kill me, isn’t she?”

The voice makes Mickey startle, twisting viciously to meet whoever it belongs to despite the fact that he has no fucking idea who Fiona is. Still, there’s no one there, only Mickey’s half-made bed staring back at him. Except…

Mickey’s half-made bed has a ninja star embedded in the centre of the mattress.

What the actual fuck.

Fear suddenly ebbing, Mickey moves around the bed to inspect the ninja star where it’s poking out of his bed, the sharp edges glinting in the light streaming through his window. Speaking of, Mickey glances down to see the smashed glass littering the floor, then up to the now empty frame where the window should be. That’s when he spots the two guys in the Gallaher bathroom across the way, the light from that room filtering in through Mickey’s now permanently open window.

The little one, Carl Mickey thinks, is looking half-terrified, half-proud as the older guy who looks about Mickey’s age is berating him.

“Dude, she’s not only gonna rip you a new one, she’ll probably make you pay to fix the neighbours’ window too. Why the fuck did you think ninja stars in the bathroom was a good idea?” The guy’s voice is strained but amused and he reaches out to swat Carl on the head. Carl just takes it, looking dejected for a moment before grinning up at whom Mickey can only assume is another of his brothers.

“Two windows with one star though, pretty awesome right?” he says. It earns him another swat and a shove towards the bathroom door, but Mickey sees the way the older guy easily slings his arm around Carl’s shoulder and hears the muffled ‘yeah man’ before they disappear from sight.

Turning back to his bed, Mickey pauses for a long moment before leaning over to wrench the ninja star out of his mattress, only dropping the bat when e needs both hands to pull the star free. Once it’s out Mickey turns back to his shattered window. It’s not going to be fixed tonight and given how tight money is the next few weeks don’t look hopeful. Fortunately it’s warm enough to not be that big an issue, so Mickey just shrugs and decided to steal some cardboard to wedge in the pane in the next couple of days.

Honestly Mickey feels like he should be pissed off. Usually having a guy bump him in the street was enough to get him irked, so having a window smashed and a pretty lethal weapon lodged in his bed should have Mickey ready to start kicking in teeth. Imagine if he had been in bed – which he would have, had he not been given the night off. The ninja star now in his hand could have been embedded in his stomach rather than the mattress. Despite that, however, all Mickey really feels is relief. Relief that no one was trying to get into the house, no one’s waiting to drag he and Mandy away from this tiny little life they’re tyring to build. It’s nothing solid; Terry could show up on their doorstep tomorrow for all Mickey knows, but for now it’s a welcome reassurance that he and Mandy might be okay for a little longer.

As Mickey gets to the bottom of the stairs he makes sure to walk slowly and surely, taking the bat back to its place by the door before heading steadily for the kitchen.

“It’s me, Mandy.” he calls quietly, knowing how tightly wound his sister can get when she’s afraid, ready to strike the second anything startles her. “It’s all good, we’re okay. No one’s trying to get in or shit.” Mickey rounds the corner to find her backed against the wall by the back door, a large knife in each hand. The second she sees him she relaxes, dropping the knives on the counter and hesitating only for a minute before she rushes forward to wrap him in a crushing hug.

They don’t say anything, just hold each other too tight until the residual fear ebbs away.

Eventually Mandy breaks the hug, stepping back just far enough to give Mickey room to move. Before she can even ask he holds up the ninja star, Mandy giving it a quizzical if suspicious look before glancing to hi for explanation.

“Kid next door smashed their bathroom window with it. It came through mine too and ended up stabbing my fucking bed,” he grumbles, trying to restore his bravado after the uncommon show of affection. Mandy’s eyebrow arcs impressively.

“Carl?” Mickey nods. “I told Ian he shouldn’t have given that little brat any more weapons, the taser was bad enough.” Mandy’s voice only wavers a little, her tone not quite teasing, but Mickey doesn’t comment on it. Instead he drops the ninja star on the kitchen table and moves to the living room where the TV is still playing. Eventually Mandy follows him, the two of them settling down quietly together, leaning close for comfort that neither quite knows how to ask for.

The yelling that starts up in the Gallagher house about an hour later is the loudest they’ve ever heard. Mickey grumbles but Mandy just smacks his arm with a smile and turns up the TV volume before heading into the kitchen to reheat the left over pizza. They eat with less gusto than before but Mickey gives Mandy the last beer and she lets him pick the meat off a few of her pepperoni pizza slices.

Eventually the neighbours go quiet, the TV moves from movies to late night infomercials and bad dramas. Mickey and Mandy stay side by side on the couch until the early morning, neither sure who falls asleep first.

Loud knocking wakes Mickey the next morning. His mouth feels furry and his back aches from where he’s been slumped on the couch, Mandy’s head resting on his chest and his arm around her bony shoulders. For a second he’s confused, but then the memory of smashing glass reminds him what had happened and rather than tossing Mandy onto the floor he manages to wriggle away without disturbing her sleeping form too much. He takes a swig of warm beer to fix the dryness on his tongue. At the door the knocking sounds again.

“Yeah, yeah.” Mickey grouches, checking his phone to see that it’s already half past nine. Honestly all he wants is a hot shower before he crawls into his bed for more sleep, but he shuffles to the door anyway. When he opens it the kid from next door, Carl, is standing sheepishly at the side of a thunderous looking young woman. Mickey objectively knows that she’s hot, her long legs tanned in denim shorts, but even with the fake smile on her face she does nothing for him. “The fuck do you want?” he says. The woman’s smile drops a little.

“Hey, I’m Fiona.”

Mickey just blinks at her.

“Fiona Gallagher, Ian’s sister. He’s friends with you and your sister Mandy, I think?” she says, doe eyes taking in every aspect of Mickey’s sleep-rumpled appearance. He hopes the little thrill of… well, of something that runs through him at the thought that Ian has mentioned him doesn’t show on his face. Then Mickey hopes the irritation that rises in response to that stupid thrill doesn’t show either.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Right,” Fiona says, brows raised, “Anyway, our little brother Carl here came to apologise for the damage he did last night.” With that she shoots the younger Gallagher a sharp look, to which he responds with a long-suffering sigh.

“Sorry for smashing your bedroom window and likely endangering your life with a ninja star.” he recites in a monotone and Mickey doesn’t doubt that he’d had the words drilled into him for the last ten minutes or so. Fiona doesn’t look impressed.

“Look, we’ll pay for the damage to the window and everything, we just-” She stops when Mickey gestures at her lazily, nose scrunched.

“Forget it. It’s cool.” he says, not entirely sure why he’s letting them off the hook. Fiona looks confused too, eyes narrowing. “Me and Mandy did dumb shit as kids too.” Mickey adds by way of explanation, hoping it will make Fiona stop looking at him as if he’s about to ask for her firstborn child as payment for his benevolence. Which, when you’re a Milkovich, probably wouldn’t be that far out of the ordinary.

“You sure?” Fiona asks, not looking quite as suspicious as before but still not wholly trusting. “I know that shit can be expensive.” Beside her Carl just looks bored.

“Yeah.” Mickey shrugs. “Mandy’d probably kill me if I let you pay for it anyway.” It’s not a _complete_ lie. Still, it seems like enough for Fiona because a wide smile starts to spread across her face when Mickey says it.

“Well, thanks, I guess.” she says, just as two of the other Gallagher kids appear by Mickey’s front lawn – Debbie and Liam. Fiona glances back at them, then to Mickey, “Sorry, we gotta get to the pool before it opens at ten. Um, just thanks, again.”

Mickey nods, more than ready for her to leave, which she finally does after thanking him one more time. Beside her Carl looks like he’s won the lottery, but just as they’re heading down the porch stairs Mickey hears Fiona inform his that he’s ‘still on her shit list’ and the kid visibly deflates. Mickey stifles a grin before heading back inside. Then he stops and gags at how fucking pathetic he was. Letting that brat get off with breaking his bedroom window was once thing, but refusing to let them pay for it? Mickey hopes he’s not going soft. He kind of wants to punch something just to make up for it.

Blaming his sudden goodwill on a lack of proper sleep, Mickey takes the stairs two at a time and doesn’t even bother to shower, closing his bedroom door behind himself. The room is warm but not stifling, what with the window now permanently letting what little breeze is outside in. Exhaling slowly, Mickey shucks his jeans and shirt before heading to where the curtains flap gently in the breeze. It’s only as he’s about to step on it that he remembers the glass on the floor, so with an unhappy mumble he heads into the bathroom for the dustpan and broom to hastily sweep it up.

When he returns Mickey can hear the Gallaghers' shower running. He pauses. Fiona was taking the three youngest kids to the pool, which means that only Ian and the other brother would be in the house. That means that Mickey has a fifty/fifty chance of Ian being the one in the shower, though there’s no voice for him to identify. Honestly, Mickey knows that the fact that he’s weighing the odds of it being his hot neighbour naked next door is creepy enough in itself, so he figures going a step further will only condemn him to hell that little bit farther. He takes a step forward and peeks out his smashed window.

It’s Ian.

Mickey knows it’s Ian because the Gallagher window is also smashed, the frosted glass only remaining in one long shard along the bottom. Meaning that instead of vague blobs of fuzzy colour, Mickey can see all of Ian Gallagher’s pale, freckly, wet back as he stands under the showerhead.

It’s by sheer force of will that Mickey holds back the moan that rises in his throat. Across the way Ian is visible from the waist up, those little dimples above his ass catching the droplets of water that run down his broad back. Mickey wants to lick those lines of wetness, wants to touch that damp skin and feel the muscle underneath it. In his boxers Mickey’s cock stirs.

For about a minute Ian just goes about showering, lathering soap on his back and arms (and other places Mickey can’t see) before rinsing it away. His red hair looks darker wet, but Mickey doesn’t mind when he gets to see the way Ian’s shoulder muscles flex when he reaches up to shampoo it. Of course, that’s when Ian drops the shampoo bottle and has to bend down to get it and it doesn’t matter that Mickey can’t actually see anything, his cock twitches and he lets out the tiniest noise.

Realising what he’s done, Mickey clamps his hand over his mouth in shock and twists, planting his back to the wall by the window. His heart hammers in his chest but somehow the though of Ian knowing, of Ian hearing him, only makes Mickey hotter. He gives his cock a sharp squeeze, hoping to dissuade it from betraying him any further when-

_“Oh.”_

Ian’s breathy little moan floats through Mickey’s open window and everything goes to hell.

For a moment he resists, refusing to peek for fear of being caught. But the quiet noises Ian’s making don’t stop and Mickey’s only human. He leans over only far enough to see into the Gallagher bathroom, but the sight that welcomes him is more than he could ever ask for; the slow flex of Ian Gallagher’s wet back and arm as he jerks himself off. Mickey wants to cry it’s so hot.

Really it’s quite tame; Mickey can’t actually see where Ian’s touching himself, can’t see that pretty pink mouth open around the slowly increasing sounds he makes, but still. Ian’s bicep is flexing gloriously, his back slowly going tenser and Mickey can fill the rest in for himself. In his boxers he’s fully hard now but he’s too transfixed by the sight of Ian to even slip a hand into them and jerk himself off.

“Ah, _fuck_.” Ian says softly, the words almost drowned out by the shower. God, he sounds like he’s enjoying himself. Mickey imagines Ian looking down at the head of his own flushed cock as it disappears between his long fingers, imagines how Ian might bite his lip or flex the muscles of his stomach as he strokes himself. The noises Ian’s making grow louder and Mickey’s mind runs wild. He imagines getting on his knees for Ian, pumping his cock slowly before taking it into his mouth. Mickey’s never sucked dick before, never really had the chance, but fuck he wants to blow Ian.

For a moment he’s distracted by wondering if Ian’s pubes would be as ginger as his hair, but then another murmured ‘fuck’ escapes from next door and it sounds a little more desperate. That only eggs Mickey’s fantasies on. He wonders how big Ian’s cock is, wether he’s cut or not. God, Mickey wonders if Ian likes to fuck or be fucked, and frankly he hopes for the former because what Mickey wouldn’t give to have Ian’s hips flush to his ass, those long fingers putting bruises on Mickey’s pale hipbones. He’s making a wet patch at the front of his boxers where his cock is leaking pre-come but still Mickey refuses to touch himself.

“Oh, _oh_. Shit.” Ian gasps, his arm suddenly speeding up. Mickey’s sure he can hear it now, the slick sound of a hand on flesh and his own dick aches to be touched. His fingers curl where they rest against his thighs but Mickey’s eyes stay glued to Ian’s back, his face going hot as he watches Ian tense and tense and-

 _“Fuck.”_ With that Ian’s trembling, his shoulders shaking as his bicep flexes and he gasps through his orgasm. Mickey stares in wonder as every muscle in Ian’s strong back seems to quiver, lingering only until his red head drops forward while he comes down from the high.

Then Mickey’s racing to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him and twisting the shower on hot before stepping into the scalding spray. It doesn't dissuade him from reaching down and taking himself in hand, cock aching and leaking while he slips his fingers into his mouth to wet them. In no time at all Mickey has two fingers in himself, twisting and thrusting them in time with rapid strokes over his cock. He groans, resting his forehead against the wet tiles. The sound of the water and the creaking of pipes drowns out his pathetic, reedy moans and gasps and within minutes Mickey’s coming hot and wet in his hand. He lingers, panting against the tile and shifting his fingers a few more times before his shivers turn to spasms and it becomes too much. Even then, though, he stays in the shower for almost twenty minutes as he waits for the burning shame and guilt to subdue.

Had he gotten out sooner and gone back into his room, perhaps Mickey would have caught Ian glance out his own shattered window and smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always please leave me some comments, I love hearing what you guys think of the fic!! Also let me know if you spot any spelling errors or grammar issues as this was unbetad.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: posts final chapter of fic over 3 years after declaring it abandoned  
> also me: i hate having to wait for updates

On Saturday Mickey has to dig shards of glass out of his foot no less than four times.

It seems to have embedded itself in the tiny cracks between the floorboards and no amount of dusting will get rid of it. Mickey even tries prying the tiny little shards out with a butterfly knife and only ends up scratching up the floor in the process. He scowls and tosses an old shirt onto the spot he thinks most of the glass is waiting for an unwitting bare foot. It’ll do for now.

With almost twelve hours before his shift is due to start Mickey is faced with actual, honest-to-God free time for what feels like the first time in months. He’s not entirely sure what to do with himself. Usually he’d default to getting comfortable and having a good old jerk session, but what with a certain redhead’s constant and unknowing teasing Mickey’s dick needs a rest. It’s starting to feel almost overused, which is concerning when Mickey considers how long it’s been since it was actually used by anyone but himself.

In fact, now that Mickey thinks about it he really hadn’t had a good fuck since before this whole thing started. Not just before the window situation, or the Gallagher situation, or even the new house situation. No, Mickey hadn’t gotten down and dirty since before Terry had dropped off the face of the earth like an anvil into the sea.

The thought is just a little depressing.

Given the situation it’s not like Mickey’s really had the time or energy. Between two jobs, a severe lack of sleep and his sudden preference for freckle-faced neighbours, it hadn’t even crossed Mickey’s mind to go looking for a fuck. But now that the thought is in his head it just doesn’t want to leave. It’s like a bee buzzing at a windowsill, bumping into the glass every minute or so to remind Mickey that it’s there.

 _I should go out and fuck_ , he thinks.

Mickey remembers the shower just hours ago, spreading himself on his own fingers and gasping against the tiles. His cock twitches ever so slightly at the memory.

 _I should go out and get fucked_ , he decides.

Mind made up, Mickey resolves to wait until the end of his shift that night then find the dimmest, seediest bar in Boystown and just have at it. If he really pushes it with the bartender chick that keeps eyeing him up at work he’s sure he’ll even be able to swing a shot or two on the house before he goes. Just enough to get him buzzed, keep his mind of stupid redheads and the sounds they make when they come.

The rest of Saturday passes as uneventfully as a Saturday can in this part of shitsville. That is to say there are gunshots a few blocks over and around midday someone who definitely isn’t a cop speeds down the street in a police cruiser, sirens blaring. Mandy’s laid out on the front porch tanning when it happens and whoops cheerfully as the car careens around a corner at the end of the road, wheels screeching before it disappears.

“Reckon they’ll get far?” She grins from where she’s propped up on her elbows, too-large sunglasses covering her eyes.

From the other end of the street another screech rings out and a second cruiser races past them. Mickey smirks.

“I’d give ‘em to the L, if that.” He says, right as a collision rings out from the distance.

Mandy pouts, craning her neck to see if either car emerges from the end of the street but the possibilities are looking slim. Adjusting her stupid sunglasses, she lies back down and stretches her arms above her head. It reminds Mickey of those nasty hairless cats and he tells her as much, getting an empty can of beer to the head as a response.

It almost feels strange being out on the porch with her, sun shining down on them. The white wood of the doorframe is warm and dry where Mickey leans against it, his shirt beginning to stick to his back in the heat. Milkovich kids aren’t accustomed to this kind of casual domesticity and it sets Mickey ever so slightly on edge. He wonders if that feeling will ever go away, the foreboding that the other shoe is going to drop any minute now.

“Hey, thanks for this morning by the way,” Mandy says, “For not being a dickstain about the window.”

Mickey frowns. “The fuck do you care? I thought you were asleep anyway.”

“Fuck off.” She says, “Usually you’d rough someone up for that kinda shit. Which I don’t have a problem with, but like, you know.”

Mickey waits for the rest of the sentence, eyebrows raised in both irritation and confusion. For her part Mandy just lies there, baking like an unseasoned French fry in the sun.

“No, I don’t know.” Mickey prompts. Mandy’s sudden shyness is starting to make him just a bit fuckin uncomfortable. Not that he’d admit it.

“Well obviously Ian would be a little less likely to hang out with me if you smashed his little brother’s face in!” She blurts, embarrassment turning to irritation. She can’t meet Mickey’s eyes and he’s pretty sure the flush creeping up her neck is more than just sunburn. Mickey barks out one of the first genuine laughs he’s had in a long time.

“You think I went easy so that firecrotch would still be your BFF?” He asks incredulously. He doesn’t realise his mistake until the look of flustered anger on Mandy’s face suddenly shifts to one of suspicion.

Fuck.

“Then why did you do it, Mick?”

_Fuck._

From her spot on the wooden floor Mandy begins to sit up, her eyes slanted behind her glasses and Mickey knows that look. It’s usually followed by Mandy getting what she wants. Which in this case is information Mickey most definitely does not want to give.

How do you explain to your sister that you let a kid off the hook for smashing your window because you secretly want to be fucked by said kid’s older brother? Mickey doesn’t want to find out.

“Mick, what are you hid-”

At the end of the street there’s an almighty bang as one of the police cars comes speeding back around the corner and shoots too wide before colliding into a parked Audi. The Audi’s alarm starts wailing as smoke pours from the cruiser’s hood and a man in grubby clothes stumbles out of the driver’s side door. The commotion distracts Mandy just long enough for Mickey to dash back inside and up to his room, kicking the door shut behind him. From his smashed window he sees the unkempt man from the cruiser stumble up to the Gallagher’s front porch and drop a set of keys twice before letting himself in.

For the briefest moment Mickey’s curious. Then he says fuck it and goes to sleep.

It’s almost dark when Mickey wakes up and he spends those first half-awake moments listening for the squeak of pipes in the Gallagher bathroom. For once the neighbour’s shower seems quiet, and upon inspection there’s no light on in the room. Mickey knows this because his damn window’s smashed so he can see straight through to the other house. He spits out a few choice words and snatches up his phone from the other end of the bed.

There’s still an hour before he has to leave for work but Mickey’s surprised he slept so long. He hadn’t managed all that much rest the night before but it was still more than his usual four hours and the added rest he managed throughout the day has piled on like a warm blanket, keeping him soft and pliant. Twisting in his sheets Mickey stretches out the aches from the construction site. His shoulders crack beautifully and the way his back pops feels close to orgasmic.

Fuck, he’s practically an old man.

Slipping out of bed he starts getting cleaned up for work, showering quickly so he doesn’t get think about the blue towel still hanging in the bathroom. When he’s dressed he heads downstairs for something to eat and finds a note from Mandy on the bench.

‘Late shift, Ian’s picking me up. I’ll bring waffles home for breakfast. – M’

Mickey makes a mental note to lift some magnets next time he stops by the Kash n Grab and tosses what looks like leftover casserole in the microwave. Left over from where he’s not entirely sure; neither he nor Mandy would know how to cook casserole to save their lives. He watches it spin inside and tries not to think too hard about ‘Ian’s picking me up’ and the way it makes his stomach twist sourly.

The casserole comes out half-cold but he swallows it down with a warm beer from the shitty fridge and leaves the glass dish on the counter. Mandy can do what she wants with who she wants.

And if Mickey finds Ian in his sister’s bed?

Well, Mickey’s never been one to shy away from throwing the first punch.

Unfortunately it’s that exact mindset that has him wrestling two drunken hipsters off him six hours later. Around him the club is flashing in pinks and greens as the music blares and the man-bun toting dipshits trip over themselves to get to him. One is lankier and Mickey throws him down easily but the other has more of a lumberjack build and he gets a mean hook in before Mickey smashes a steel-capped boot into the asshole’s kneecap. He goes down with a yowl and Mickey rubs at his jaw where he knows a garish bruise must be forming. Spitting blood from where he’s bitten the inside of his cheek, Mickey gestures for another bouncer to help him out.

“Don’t hurt yourself or nothing, wouldn’t want you to break a sweat,” Mickey snaps to the guy as he approaches. Daniel, if Mickey remembers right.

Daniel shrugs and looks thoroughly bored. “You had it sorted.”

Mickey bares his teeth and hauls up the lanky flannel-wearing moron at his feet. The guy whimpers pathetically and Mickey almost regrets knocking out his front tooth. Then he remembers how the guy had grinned as he slipped something into a ginger girl’s drink and he shoves him a little harder than strictly necessary.

“I’ve got it from here,” Daniel says, just about wrenching the lanky guy’s arm from its socket as he pulls him away. “Get your shit looked at.”

He leads the two hipsters towards the exit and disappears into the crowd. Mickey spits out another mouthful of blood and heads for the bar. There’s only forty minutes left of his shift so he reaches over the counter and pours himself two shots of vodka, downing them before anyone spots him. It burns the cuts in his mouth but he only pauses a moment before throwing back a third. May as well go for gold.

The crowd has already begun to thin out and by the time the lights come up most of the stragglers are too drunk to argue as they’re herded out the doors. Usually by this time Mickey’s dead on his feet but the sheer amount of sleep he managed in the last 24 hours has him rearing to go. That, and the alcohol.

He ignores the blonde bartender who suggests a nightcap with a red-nailed hand on his wrist and heads for the L, feet just a little uncertain when they meet uneven pavement. He would walk but the night is damp and hot and even the shitty air-conditioning the L provides is better than a sweltering walk across the city. He jumps the turnstiles and slips onto the first train headed the right way.

Knee bouncing with the sway of the carriage, Mickey flips out a cigarette and lights up, ignoring the frowns of the few other passengers. It’s early enough that no one will complain, smoke siphoning out the small opening in the window above him. It’s been so long since he last did this and the anticipation is beginning to slip under his skin like mice into the foundations of a house. His palms prickle with sweat and there’s something hot building in his gut.

The sound Ian made this morning filters through Mickey’s mind like an unbidden breeze. He remembers the way those freckled shoulders had bowed forward, the way his arm has flexed with each stroke.

Mickey takes a long drag of his cigarette.

By the time he makes it to the bar it’s almost four in the morning, but this is the kind of establishment that doesn’t close up shop until the sun’s on the rise. Apollo’s Den is just about the stupidest name Mickey’s ever heard for a bar, but he shuffles into the grimy place with a satisfaction he can’t quite stifle.

The interior is so dimly lit it’s hard to make out where the black walls end and Mickey takes a moment to let his eyes adjust. It’s small, booths lining the left wall while a row of three pool tables fill out the right half of the space. In the centre are a few tables and the back wall sports a long, dirty bar counter. It’s slim pickings tonight; towards the back two black men sit just a little too close in a booth, while a few others linger by the pool tables. There are only three sitting at the bar, one so fat the stool seems to be slowly dipping under his weight. The other two seem pretty unremarkable from behind, but Mickey spots a hint of auburn in the taller one’s hair. He frowns.

“Gimme’ a beer.” he mutters as he takes one of the remaining empty seats at the bar.

The man behind the counter is portly, with a thick moustache and heavy bags under his eyes. He grunts something Mickey doesn’t bother to catch and begins to dry a glass with a cloth dirtier than the floor he probably picked it up off.

To the left auburn-haired guy turns his head towards Mickey and eyes him up. Mickey’s beer arrives in the same nasty glass the bartender was drying. He’s pretty sure it’s grubbier than when the man picked it up, but he’s too buzzed to care. The guy next to Mickey leans in.

“I’m Nate.”

Mickey turns to look at the guy over the lip of his beer. Probably in his twenties, pretty unremarkable; muddy hazel eyes framed by long lashes that might’ve been pretty if they weren’t set under such a heavy brow. He’s lean in a soft way, a single roll of stomach visible in his too-tight shirt and there’s something irritating about the way he holds his mouth.

“The fuck I wanna know your name for?” Mickey retorts before taking a long gulp of beer. It’s warm and tastes somehow stale. Nate looks slightly taken aback.

“Well generally you introduce yourself to someone you meet in a bar, get to know them.” He says petulantly and Mickey’s lip curls. His voice is just a little too reedy for his face, skin just a little too pink to suit the hair.

Mickey shoots a cursory glance around the bar to see what else is on offer. A few burly guys by the pool tables are watching him but Mickey’s not into guys who look like WWE rejects. There’s a promising-looking blonde in one of the front booths, with high cheekbones and junkie-lean arms but judging by his hand in the pants of the guy next to him Mickey’s out of luck.

Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s just his stupid brain but Mickey can’t help his disappointment. It’s not that he’d expect to see anyone like Ian in a place like this, but Mickey’s heard him come enough times that he could fill in the pieces. He could bring those noises to the front of his mind, imagine those long hands on him, inside him. All he would need is a nice redhead to stand behind him and keep quiet. If Mickey was slightly less drunk he’d probably feel stupid for even thinking it, disgusted at the way he’s so damn hot for his neighbour for fucks sake. As it is he just scowls at the bar and his life in general.

Mickey turns back to the auburn-haired idiot beside him.

“You get it or give it?” Mickey demands. Nate chokes on whatever fruity thing he’s sipping on and a little dribbles down his chin. Mickey resists the urge to gag.

“I, uh,” He hesitates, “Well I guess I do both but usually I prefer to giv-”

“Cool,” Mickey says “Just don’t talk.” Then he downs the rest of his beer before he can think better of it.

There’s a surprised but eager look in Nate’s eye as Mickey leads him to the grubby bathrooms, locks the door to the disabled stall behind them. There’s all manner of graffiti on the wall that Mickey backs him up against. Nate moves to touch his face but Mickey just unceremoniously shoves a fist down the guy’s pants, grips his already half-hard cock. He’s not here for bullshit pretences. He’s here to get fucked and get out.

With some attention on his cock Nate makes good on the not talking rule Mickey implemented, biting his lip and rutting up into Mickeys fist. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his upper lip that shines in the light of a single bare bulb above them. Mickey supposes it’s hot enough, the way Nate’s shifting against him, his own cock starting to take interest. But sloppy hand jobs aren’t gonna cut it. Mickey frowns and shoves his other hand into his own pants to fist himself, and he’s sure the alcohol shouldn’t be having this big an impact on him. He hadn’t had _that_ much.

Against the wall Nate bites back a little whispery noise. Mickey’s cock twitches ever so slightly in his own hand.

 _Ah_.

It’s nothing like the noises Ian makes, those bitten off moans and stuttering breaths that make Mickey’s blood rush south. Even the memory of it this morning, Ian’s rough voice breaking as he came, has sweat breaking out on the nape of Mickey’s neck. God, give him a little of that vocalisation and he’ll be ready to go.

If only Ian could’ve been the one in this bathroom stall with him, rutting against his thigh and pressing him close to the wall.

Even as drunk as he is, Mickey feels a flush rise up his throat at the thought. Nate’s cock in his hand is suddenly disappointing.

“You can like, make noise and shit,” Mickey mutters. This may be a seedy fuckin gay bar but that doesn’t mean he’s looking to be overheard. Nate, on the other hand – well, maybe if he gets a little more vocal Mickey can send his mind elsewhere.

“Yeah?” Nate says in a whisper, and it’s meant to be sexy but Mickey’s lip curls. He fists his cock a little harder.

“Yeah fucknuts, just like. Moan and shit, I don’t know.” Mickey spits and suddenly the alcohol isn’t blurring Nate’s face enough to keep him halfway attractive. “Fuck.”

Nate tilts his head back against the cubicle wall and lets out the most pathetic wail Mickey’s ever heard. Whatever was fuelling Mickey’s erection is immediately gone.

For a single moment they stand there frozen, one of Mickey’s hands down each pair of jeans and a growing air of discomfort settling on them. Then Mickey’s wrenching both hands away and slamming the cubicle door open, storming out of the bathroom to the sound of Nate’s meek protests. Mickey might be desperate, but he’s not that desperate.

It takes him almost an hour to walk home from Boystown. Unfucked, drunk and incredibly pissy he starts two fights on the way. The fact that the second fight is with an oddly stacked pile of rubbish is nobody’s business but his own.

By the time he stumbles onto the right street the sun is almost starting to peek over the horizon. The smashed up Audi is still sitting out the front of the Gallagher house and Mickey gives it a kick as he passes. Fuck the Gallaghers. Fuck Ian in particular. Fuck Ian and his stupid voice, ruining Mickey’s night. Fuck Mickey for wanting Ian in the first place. Fuck-

Mickey trips over a leg and goes sprawling across the pavement, barely saving himself from tearing half his face off on the pavement.

“What the fuck!” He demands of the leg, which he now sees is attached to a grubby middle-aged man. Mickey frowns at him for a moment in the dim light before recognising him. Police cruiser guy. He’s laid out in the gutter as if he’d been tossed there and just decided to stay put, head lolling towards Mickey with an air of extreme inebriation.

Mickey bares his teeth. The man frowns.

“You’re not my son.” He says disappointedly. There’s dried vomit on the collar of his shirt.

“I’m gonna fuck your son.” Mickey tries to snarl back, but it comes out as a garbled mess. The man tilts his head as inquisitively as a drunkard can.

“Which one? None of them are very pretty but I’m sure Liam will be a looker when he grows up.” He says, then adds in a conspiratorial whisper “He gets it from me.”

For a moment Mickey is thoroughly confused. Then his brain catches up with his stupid mouth and he scrambles up from the pavement.

“Fuck him _up_!” Mickey slurs, “I’m gonna fuck your son up! Beat him up!”

From the gutter the man is nodding sagely.

“Fuck off! Fuck you!” Mickey snaps, then kicks the old guy’s leg for good measure. It doesn’t seem to bother him but at least Mickey feels slightly more dignified as he turns and stumbles the last few feet to his house.

He wakes up to the sound of shouting.

The fact that it doesn’t even alarm him anymore is frankly depressing and he lies there in irritated acceptance for a whole two seconds before the hangover hits him like a fucking train. His head throbs with such intensity he’s half expecting his nose to start bleeding. The inside of his mouth tastes dry and rancid like something had crawled in and died while he was asleep, and he knows opening his eyes isn’t even in the realm of things he wants to do right now.

“A police cruiser, Fiona! A fucking _police cruiser_!” A man’s frantic voice floats through Mickey’s window and he winces at the way it makes his skull pound. “Where did Frank even _get_ a police cruiser?” The same voice shrieks, words running together into a near unintelligible mess.

Mickey resists the urge to punch something, only because he’s pretty sure if he moves he’ll die.

“I don’t know Steve, maybe the same place you got a fucking _Audi!”_

Mickey recognises Fiona’s voice now, high and livid and way too sharp for his poor, hungover ears. A door then slams so hard he’s pretty sure what little glass is left in his window rattles and Steve starts shouting Fiona’s name.

The back of Mickey’s head has begun to thump in a really very upsetting way and dying suddenly doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.

His room is sticky and hot, the sheets clinging to his legs where his jeans are still tangled around his ankles. A warm breeze rustles the heavy curtains drawn over his empty window and with it comes the stink of nicotine. Fiona must have lit up in the bathroom.

Maybe if she just stays in there for a while Mickey will be able to slip back asleep before any more Gallagher family rackets begin. Maybe, just maybe he’ll be able to sleep off this damn hangover in peace. Maybe for once they’ll be able to keep it the fuck down.

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

And that must be Steve trying to force the bathroom door open. Mickey snarls viciously as Fiona begins shouting expletives and at this point he’s almost wishing for another ninja star to come sailing through his window. Steve has started cursing back just as loud and between the two of them Mickey knows he’s got a snowballs chance in hell of getting back to sleep.

Cutting his losses, Mickey just about crawls out of bed and into the bathroom, stumbling with his eyes half shut into the tiled sanctuary. Here the screeching from next door only makes him want to rip his ears off rather than his whole damn head. He slams a cabinet open fumbles around before finding some off-brand painkillers Mandy uses for her cramps and throws back two dry. Then he shoves his head under the faucet and gulps down what feels like enough water to fill a lake. His mouth still tastes nasty but hell deal with that later.

Twisting the taps with just a little more violence than strictly necessary, Mickey doesn’t bother waiting for the water to warm up before he steps into the spray. It slices over him like a damn prayer, cool and blissfully refreshing while he leans his head against the tiles and waits for his skull to stop throbbing.

It’s not just his head that’s aching. All through his body little pains are starting to make themselves known as his brain starts to kick into gear. Mickey slowly turns so that the water is hitting his stiff back. Across the bathroom a pink post-it note is stuck to the mirror with some Shakespeare nonsense Mandy is trying to memorise for one of her classes.

How shitty does Mickey feel? Let him count the damn ways.

His head is fuzzy but he remembers enough of the night before to be in an absolutely feral mood. The one time he tries to get laid and of course Gallagher somehow manages to fuck it up. Mickey would never admit it but a part of him is quietly embarrassed at how much Ian’s voice seems to have worked its way into his head and under his skin. The thought that he now craves it, almost needs it to get off is mortifying. He’s like one of those dogs who want a treat when they hear a bell.

Only it’s orgasms and the sound of his neighbour jerking it.

Mickey stays in the shower long enough for the ache in his skull to recede enough for him to think straight. He gives himself a thorough scrub with some cheap men’s body wash that wasn’t there yesterday, too hung over to question it. Footsteps sound on the landing outside, probably Mandy off to work.

When his fingers have started to prune Mickey finally shuts off the water and steps out of the shower. There’s banging next door, but Mickey assumes it’s more Gallagher nonsense and pays no attention to it. He has work again tonight and judging by the warm light filtering through the frosted bathroom window he’s already slept half the day away. He brushes his teeth and chucks a towel around his waist.

Then he steps out on to the landing and directly into Ian fucking Gallagher.

“Oh, hey! What-” Ian begins.

“-the _fuck_.” Mickey provides.

There’s a damp patch on Ian’s grey shirt where Mickey’s still-wet chest had collided with Ian’s, and Mickey’s way too hungover to be dealing with this shit right now.

“Why are you in my fucking house?”

Ian lifts the toolbox in his hand, making his arm flex deliciously and Mickey’s _way too hungover to be dealing with this shit right now_. It also doesn’t explain anything, which Mickey’s face must give away because Ian smirks a little and god Mickey’s gonna kill someone.

“I figured I’d fix up the window Liam broke,” Ian offers, turning to walk into Mickey’s room. Like some sort of confused puppy Mickey just follows, still dripping a little onto the wooden floor.

The curtains in Mickey’s room are pulled open to reveal three wooden planks already nailed across the top half of the smashed open window. His bed has been pushed out at an angle so that Ian can reach the window properly, two more planks leaning against the wall beside it.

“We should have the money to get it properly fixed in a week or two, but I figured this would be better than nothing,” Ian’s explaining as he sets the toolbox down. His jeans look just a little to small, clinging to his thighs obscenely when he crouches to retrieve a hammer. “I’ve left pretty big gaps so you don’t suffocate or anything.”

Mickey’s gonna suffocate from the sheer insanity of the situation in a second. He’s standing in his dimly lit room in a goddamn towel while Ian goddamn Gallagher, the object of his voyeurism and sexual frustration for weeks, boards up his window like some do-gooder out of a rom-com. What has his life come to?

“You okay, Mick?” Ian asks, a far too attractive look of concern crossing his face. It’s then that Mickey realises he’s been standing in the doorway dumbstruck for over a minute.

“Fuck off.” He replies. Ian smirks and turns back to the window, popping a nail between his lips and goddamn he’s trying to kill Mickey.

Moving to the pile of clothes in the corner of the room, Mickey begins extracting the cleanest things he can find from the heap. Behind him Ian starts hammering, and Mickey realises this was what he could hear from the shower. He scowls as he pulls on some clean boxers under his towel, stupidly self-conscious with Ian in the room. It’s not that he doesn’t want Ian to see his dick, more that he doesn’t want his dick to betray him.

Mickey drops the towel and kicks it towards the door, turning to scan the room for his phone. He could’ve sworn he left it on his bed, but god knows where it is amongst the mess of his sheets. Ian’s on his knees between the bed and the window, his freckles almost glowing in the warm sun than shines through. The muscles in hiss back are moving with each swing of his hammer, biceps curling and flexing as he positions the wooden planks.

He really should’ve jerked off before he showered.

“Where’s Mandy?” Mickey asks, if only to distract himself. You can’t get a boner talking about your sister.

“Went into work early to cover someone, said to tell you she’ll be back by five,” Ian says around the nails between his lips. He’s finished the second-last panel, leaving about an inch of space between each one to let in the light and air.

“She make you do this?” Mickey asks, moving to the bed and yanking the sheets around to find his phone.

“Nah,” Ian says as he lines up the last plank, “Figured it was the neighbourly thing to do.”

There’s laughter in his voice, a little bit of snark that Mickey can’t help but snort at. He’s torn his sheets halfway off the bed but finally catches the cool metal of the phone against his fingers. It’s dead.

“Yeah, you’re a regular Mr. Rogers.” Mickey scoffs, moving to sit on the edge of the bed closest to Ian, feet planted on the ground and knees splayed. His charger is plugged into the wall right by Ian’s toolbox, which Mickey kicks out of the way just for the sake of it. Maybe he was freaking out over nothing, Mickey thinks as he plugs in his phone.

“Besides,” Ian says, and Mickey looks up just in time to meet his eyes, “With the window broken, you’ve got a permanent view straight into our bathroom.”

Mickey’s blood runs cold. Then he wonders how quickly he could wrestle the hammer out of Ian’s hands and beat his own fucking brains in.

“God only know what you’ve seen and heard from us in there.” Ian adds, and there’s no way he could be saying that without implying something.

By the window Ian is hammering away, taking a nail from between his lips every few minutes while Mickey’s soul attempts to physically depart his body. This is not happening. _This is not fucking happening._ He’s sitting on his unmade bed in nothing but his boxers and he’s ninety precent sure Ian knows he’s been listening to him jerk off.

Mickey’s hands are clenched into fists at his sides.

 _Relax_ , he tells himself, just because Ian’s making some major fucking implications doesn’t means he knows shit. Maybe he’s just talking about the run-of-the-mill Gallagher shit that goes down in their bathroom. There’s no need to-

“Especially given what us guys do in the shower.”

-panic.

His palms are drenched in sweat, legs almost trembling with the need to fucking move, do something, lash out. On the floor Ian finishes nailing the last plank into the window frame and sets his tools down, turning on his knees to glance at Mickey. There’s a strange look on his face that falters when their eyes meet.

“I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re tryna get at here,” Mickey begins, voice pitched low and as threatening as he can muster when his heart is trying to beat out of his chest, “But if you think you can come in here and fucking blackmail me or some shit, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Ian’s ginger brow furrows, his broad palms splayed across his jean clad thighs and for a moment he regards Mickey with the same look people usually give dogs that have gotten themselves stuck in cat doors. It’s really not helping Mickey’s flaring temper.

Then an incredulous grin starts to spread across Ian’s face and Mickey’s two seconds away from kicking his teeth in when Ian says, “Oh my god, you don’t know?”

That throws Mickey for a loop.

Ian shifts a little closer and Mickey’s suddenly incredibly aware of the fact that he’s wearing nothing but boxers, all his pale skin on display in the half-light cast from the boarded up window.

“The fuck are you talking about?” He demands as Ian moves closer, inching in like he’s approaching a skittish animal.

“Mickey, I’m not trying to blackmail you,” Ian says, and his mouth is still smiling but there’s something else in his eyes, in the way he puts his left hand on the edge of the bed beside Mickey. He’s still on his knees, head angled up to look at Mickey, and the whole situation is confusing Mickey on so many fucking levels he’s about to go crazy from it.

“I was trying to seduce you.”

Mickey’s brain short circuits.

For a few blistering minutes they sit there in complete silence, Ian looking up at him with that damn smirk while Mickey tries to piece together what he just said.

Seduce. Ian Gallagher was trying to seduce him. What the fuck? Who even says seduce? What the fuck? What the actual, literal, fuck?

Mickey decides to voice his opinions.

“What the _fuck_?”

On the floor Ian sits back on his feet, still smirking but also looking slightly blown away by Mickey’s fucking idiocy.

“Do you honest to god think I jerk off that much and that loudly all the time?” Ian asks incredulously, though there’s still laughter in his voice, “I mean, you’re not the only one who knows how close our windows are.”

Valid point, Mickey thinks. But that explains nothing. Why would Ian risk Mickey hearing him, how would Ian even know Mickey wouldn’t just slam his window shut or go over and beat the shit out of Ian for being so damn noisy? With the window boarded up things are starting to get very warm in Mickey’s room. There’s a tiny bead of sweat on Ian’s forehead and it makes Mickey’s mouth dry.

“Why do you even think I’d be fucking interested?” Mickey demands, but his voice has lost the threatening edge it had before. He almost sounds a little desperate. Ian smirks, licks his lips.

“I mean, you’re not obvious or anything but you’re not that subtle either.” He says and moves the hand he still had resting on the edge of the bed to lay it on Mickey’s thigh.

_Jesus fucking Christ._

Mickey doesn’t even think, just shifts his leg ever so slightly wider. Ian takes it as the invitation it is.

He crowds into the space between Mickey’s legs, pressing his other palm flat against Mickey’s inner thigh and pushing his knees further apart to accommodate his broad chest. And god, Mickey had never really been close enough to realise how _big_ Ian is, how much space he takes up. Mandy had mentioned Ian did some army training bullshit, but now Mickey really believed it.

Ian’s hands run the length of Mickey’s thighs, knee to hip and back, while Mickey’s already half-hard dick is beginning to tent his black boxers. Warmth that has nothing to do with how stuffy the room is begins to climb up Mickey’s chest and neck, his fingers already twisting into the sheets and how the hell is this happening right now?

“I knew you were watching me yesterday.” Ian says the third time his hands come to rest at the edge of Mickey’s boxers, his index fingers slipping under the cotton.

“What?” Mickey asks dumbly, eyes darting between the pink swell of Ian’s lips and the way his broad palms look on Mickey’s thighs.

“You made a noise,” Ian explains, fingers inching higher and Mickey’s definitely hard now. “I heard you and I knew you were watching me. It was hot.” He says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, you neighbour spying on you while you jerk off.

Mickey’s head is spinning and it’s definitely not the hangover anymore. In his boxers his cock is throbbing with how much he wants Ian to touch him, the whole situation crazy and blisteringly hot. Ian, who is kneeling between Mickey’s thighs and practically talking dirty to him. Everything seems to have gone from zero to one hundred too fast for Mickey to keep up.

“Did you like it?” Ian asks, eyes bright and somehow teasing, “Watching me?”

The question snaps Mickey back to reality, back into his body and he scowls down at Ian.

“Fuck off, why do I care what you do with your dick.”

It’s the wrong answer, because Ian frowns and suddenly there are two cool spots on Mickey’s thighs where Ian’s hands were.

“Alright, fine.” Ian says, moving to stand up and Mickey flails for a moment before grabbing the neck of Ian’s shirt and yanking him back down. For a second Mickey doesn’t realise what he’s done, fingers fisted in the grey cotton, but then Ian’s mouth quirks up at him and Mickey’s wrestling the shirt over Ian’s head and off.

He tries to grab at Ian’s bare shoulders and pull him up, desperate to get at his smooth freckled skin but Ian’s stronger than him and stay firmly rooted to the floor. It shouldn’t turn Mickey on the way it does, but suddenly all he can think about is how Ian might hold him down and fuck him, how his strong hands might grab at Mickey’s ass as Ian pushes into him.

Something must show on Mickey’s face because Ian is truly grinning up at him now, hands right back on Mickey’s thighs and sliding up over his boxers to the crease of his hips. His cock is straining at the fabric now, a tiny wet spot blooming at the tip and he’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t so fucking horny.

Ian’s hands slide down to frame Mickey’s dick through the fabric, so close but not quite touching, and with his eyes locked on Mickey’s he leans forward until his breath is ghosting over Mickey’s dick.

“Fuck,” Mickey gets out, one hand rising up to try to push Ian’s head down. It’s futile and Ian grabs Mickey’s wrist, pins it to the bed beside his leg. That also shouldn’t turn him on so much, the feeling of being pinned down, but Mickey can deal with that little crisis later.

“Tell me,” Ian says, his lips barely brushing the fabric stretched over Mickey’s cock but god it’s enough to put him on edge, make Mickey push his hips up desperately.

“Fuck, just-” Mickey huffs, chest already flushed, but he’s still in denial, “Just fucking blow me.”

Ian’s smirk is downright obscene as he shakes his head, eyes still on Mickeys as he squeezes Mickey’s cock ever so lightly through his boxers. A rush of air escapes Mickey’s lungs.

“Tell me you liked watching me.” Ian demands, and he presses his tongue right to the wet spot at the head of Mickey’s dick as he does.

It’s like opening the floodgates.

“Fuck, I fucking loved it.” He admits, and Ian’s mouth finally covers his cock through the fabric, hot and damp and not nearly enough. “I fucking- every time I heard you I wanted to fucking- I don’t know, Jesus.”

The hand that isn’t pinning Mickey’s wrist to the bed moves up and yanks his boxers down, Ian’s knuckles brushing Mickey’s dick as he does it. Ian only pulls them low enough to free Mickey’s cock, watches it bounce up as Mickey thrusts into the air before leaning in and licking a wet stripe up the length of it.

“Keep going.” Ian says, then fists his left hand at the base of Mickey’s cock and runs his tongue over the head, licking at the precome there.

This is going to be how Mickey dies, with Ian’s mouth on his dick demanding that Mickey tell him the filthiest shit he’s fantasised. It’s not a bad way to go.

“I jerked off just listening to you,” Mickey gets out in a rush, “Came all- all over myself just wondering what you were doing. How big you were, how thick.” The sentence makes him burn with shame but Ian’s doing something sinful with his tongue, slipping it up and down Mickey’s frenulum in a way that makes his toes curl.

Ian takes Mickey’s dick into his mouth, sucks while he pumps at the base. When Mickey only breathes heavily Ian gives him a sharp jerk and hums around his cock.

“I, uh- I fingered myself.” He offers, then swears lowly as Ian’s mouth sinks all the way to the base of his dick, throat moving around the head. Mickey’s head swims and heat and pressure start to twist in his gut. “Fuck, _Ian._ ”

Mickey’s hand that isn’t pinned to the bed shoots out to grab at Ian’s shoulder, fumbling to get a grip while he watches Ian’s ginger head bob in his lap. It’s too much, the feeling of Ian’s plush wet mouth and the visual of his red lips stretched around Mickey’s dick. Naturally, that’s when Mickey realises the hand that Ian had been jerking him with is suddenly gone, disappearing into the unzipped fly of Ian’s jeans.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Mickey snarls, hips jolting up involuntarily and Ian gags ever so slightly before he sucks hard and pulls off.

Mickey must look a mess, flushed and ruddy, but Ian’s no better. There’s saliva on his lips and chin, his mouth mottled red and colour high in his cheeks where he looks up at Mickey. He takes a moment to lick at Mickey’s balls, suck a bruise into Mickey’s thigh that Mickey only half-heartedly protests. The hand he still has wrapped around Mickey’s wrist is definitely leaving a mark, but a part of Mickey only gets more aroused by the thought.

Between his own legs Ian’s hand is still moving.

“Why’d you stop, shithead?” Mickey growls, but there’s no real bite in it. Ian, on the other hand, sinks his teeth into Mickey’s inner thigh and draws a frankly embarrassing noise from him.

“I’m deciding how I want to fuck you.” Ian says as he laves his tongue over the mark he’s made.

Mickey’s definitely going to die from this.

“I want to watch you finger yourself open for me,” Ian muses, and Mickey can’t drag his eyes from where Ian’s bicep is still slowly flexing. “But I also want you to come in my mouth.”

Actually, Mickey’s pretty sure he’s already died and this is some sort of fucked up horny afterlife.

As turned on as he is though, the idea of spreading himself open while Ian watches makes him want to squirm away. There’s a difference between letting a guy fuck you and putting on a show for him. As far gone as Mickey may be, and as hot as Ian is, that’s not a difference he’s gonna be blurring any time soon.

“Well you can fucking scratch the first one of your list, I’m not some twink who does…” Mickey trails off and Ian stares up at him with the tip of Mickey’s dick resting on his lips. “That.” Mickey ends lamely.

“Okay,” Ian shrugs, “Got any lube?”

The next few minutes are a mess of limbs and sheets as Mickey reaches across his bed to snatch a half-empty bottle of lube from under the other side of his mattress. Ian gives him a look that Mickey doesn’t bother analysing, and then he’s reaching up and pushing Mickey onto his back. The hand on Mickey’s chest is sticky with precome from where Ian had been jacking himself off, and a stupid part of Mickey’s brain wants to take Ian’s wet fingers into his mouth. Instead he passes Ian the lube, then spreads his legs as Ian climbs over him.

“Keeping your jeans on?” Mickey quips, gearing up for an insult to fill the almost intimate silence but then Ian’s mouth is back on his dick and Mickey shuts up.

Now that Mickey’s laying back with his legs still half-off the bed he can see the boarded up window directly over Ian’s bobbing head. _Fuck_ , he thinks. Even with the planks across it the Gallaghers would only have to open their bathroom window to hear what was happening next door. Not that it was hard for Mickey to keep quiet, years of jerking off in the Milkovich household could pretty much train anyone into silent orgasms. The idea of someone hearing them shouldn’t make Mickey feel so suddenly close to coming.

Then a lube slicked finger runs down Mickey’s perineum and presses at his hole and he lets out a noise that would put a porn star to shame. Ian smirks around Mickey’s dick and presses into him.

“Fuck, _Ian.”_

Slowly Ian begins to work Mickey open, wet fingers pressing and teasing at his hole before pushing in and wringing from him bursts of pleasure that make Mickey’s thighs tremble. If he felt close before, this is ten times better, heat pooling inside him ready to overflow. By the time three of Ian’s fingers are pumping slowly inside him Mickey’s a quivering mess, hips alternately pushing up into Ian’s hot, wet mouth and down onto his fingers. Mickey has to draw his legs up and plant his feet on the mattress to even get enough leverage to thrust, but that only spreads him further on Ian’s fingers, makes him feel more wrecked, more close.

“Fuck, c’mon,” Mickey grouses, “Just fuck me Gallagher.”

Ian pulls off Mickey’s cock with a wet nose, a string of spit running from his lip to the head of Mickey’s dick. The sudden loss of heat is a shock to the system and Mickey can feel his orgasm so close now, he just needs something more, an extra push. It makes Mickey shudder, press himself down more forcefully on Ian’s fingers, which twist deliciously inside him. His dick bobs obscenely with the movement, flushed pink where it juts from his dark pubic hair.

“Not until you come.” Ian says, leaning his weight on the hand that still has one of Mickey’s pinned to the bed. That wrist is definitely going to be bruised after all this.

“I can just come on your dick,” Mickey tries for persuasive but just sounds needy, “Come on, fuck me.” As he says it he pushes down again on Ian’s fingers, tries to find that sweet spot inside himself.

“No,” Ian says resolutely, “You got to hear me come plenty of times. I want to watch you.”

Then he leans back down and swallows Mickey’s dick to the base, throat closing around it and making Mickey cry out before slapping a hand over his mouth. It’s almost too much, the heat, the suction, the wetness, all added to the sinful visuals of Ian’s mouth spit-slicked and stretched around him. The orgasm building at the back of Mickey’s spine is suddenly so much closer, and maybe the idea of coming now isn’t so bad if it means Ian will fuck him after.

Just as the thought occurs to Mickey Ian twists his fingers a new way, curling them forward and sparks flash behind Mickey’s eyes as he feels the sharp pull of his orgasm ready to crest in his gut. Then Ian’s other hand is lifting off of Mickey’s wrist and jerking his cock, the fingers inside him thrusting perfectly as Ian pulls off until he has just the tip of Mickey’s cock in his mouth.

“Fuck,” Mickey snarls, and Ian smirks up and it and that’s all it takes.

Mickey’s orgasm hits him like a punch to the chest, air rushing out of him as he gasps and shudders. Ian jerks him through it, lets his lips part obscenely as Mickey spurts once, twice into his mouth. The come drips over Ian’s lips, runs across his tongue and Mickey clenches involuntarily around the thick fingers still pushing and moving inside of him. All at once it’s far too much, the hands and mouth and his thighs trembling on either side of Ian’s flushed chest. Ian just licks up the length of Mickey’s cock, relentless when Mickey flinches away, and swallows down his come.

“Still want me to fuck you?” Ian asks when Mickey’s breathing isn’t quite so ragged. Mickey takes on look at the heavy bulge in Ian’s open jeans.

“Fuck yes.”

Ian grins. Mickey’s orgasm made him pliant, but he’s still eager, hooks an ankle around the back of Ian’s thigh and draws him in while he clenches around Ian’s fingers again. The second they’re within reach Mickey’s hands are yanking at Ian’s pants, trying to undress him. But then Ian’s broad hands are there, grabbing at Mickey’s hips and thigh and flipping him over.

“ _Fuck,_ a bit pent up there Gallagher?” Mickey tries to snark, but it comes out as more of a garbled moan as Ian’s still-clothed cock ruts roughly at the cleft of his ass.

“You talk too much.” Ian says, then he’s shoving one of Mickey’s thighs up and shoving his own jeans and boxers down just enough to pull his dick free. There’s the sound of a wrapper tearing, but Mickey just reaches back for Ian’s hip and holds on as Ian presses the head of his cock to Mickey’s hole and slowly, slowly pushes in.

It’s so good, _too_ good even. Mickey hadn’t really seen Ian’s cock, but by the way he stretches and aches around it the redhead must be fucking hung. As much as Ian had wanted Mickey to come first, the patience it must’ve taken clearly had an impact because the second Ian bottoms out he’s pressing right up along Mickey’s back and breathing roughly into his neck.

“Fuck,” Ian moans lowly, and there it is, in full fucking surround sound. The voice that had been ruining Mickey’s life ever since he moved in, now in high definition. It’s enough to make Mickey’s cock stir between his legs, still too sensitive to get hard but interested nonetheless.

“Just fuck me,” Mickey huffs, and Ian fucking does.

The noises Ian makes as he fucks into Mickey are so much better than anything he’d heard before. They start out small, little grunts and ‘ _oh’_ s as Ian works him up with a few slow, long thrusts. But all that time spent on his knees gets the better of Ian and soon he’s rutting into Mickey hard enough to jolt the bed, those powerful thighs finally being put to good use. For Mickey’s part he just aches his back and takes it, revelling in the noises that drop from Ian’s lips like diamonds.

“Fuck,” and “Mick,” and “Oh god,” rush out in waves through the dim bedroom as Ian plasters himself to Mickey’s back and drives him into the bed, hips slapping against Mickey’s ass with each thrust. He must be getting close, one hand fisted in the sheets by Mickeys head and the other digging bruises into Mickey’s hip. If Mickey could get hard again so soon he definitely fucking would.

“C’mon Ian, that all you got?” Mickey teases because he has no sense of self-preservation. His ass is already starting to ache but he fucking loves it, loves the slick burn as Ian pushes into him roughly.

Then suddenly Ian’s rising onto his knees and dragging Mickey up by the hips, so that Mickey’s left literally face-down ass-up on the bed. It should be more shameful, but the hot flush that fill Mickey’s face is betrayed by the way he curves his back into it, shoves back on Ian’s dick. The pace is brutal, Ian pumping into him with sheer desperation and Mickey knows he’s close. There’s a broad hand gripping his ass, another running the length of his back to rest on the nape of his neck.

“Fuck, _Mick_ ,” Ian moans suddenly, then he grunts and with one, two hard thrusts he cries out and comes. Ian’s thighs are trembling where they’re touching the back of Mickey’s and he curves forward over Mickey’s back, their sweat-slick skin sticking in the muggy heat of the room.

The silence that follows is punctuated only by their ragged breathing and Ian’s hand is kneading ever so softly at the back of Mickey’s neck. For a moment it’s almost tender.

“Fuck, I need a smoke.” Mickey drawls, and against his back Ian huffs out a laugh.

They slowly detangle, Mickey a little more eager to reduce the amount of touching skin, and Ian ambles off to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. Mickey rolls onto his back and feels a twinge in his thigh from where he’d held it at an angle too long. The thoroughly fucked-out feeling that has washed over him seems to be keeping any other existential panic at bay for the moment, so he lets himself sink into it as he scrounges a cigarette from the bedside table and lights up.

When Ian gets back Mickey has his boxers back on and _wow_ , he’s kinda glad for it because the ginger still has his dick out of his jeans and he really is hung. There’s no self-consciousness in Ian’s movement as he perches on the other side of the bed and puts his hand out for the cigarette. Mickey tells himself he only passes it over because he’s still stupid with afterglow, and not because of the way Ian looks, still flushed and shining with sweat.

“You’re not awful at that.” Mickey says when Ian passes the cigarette back.

“What, smoking?” Ian says with false innocence.

Mickey considers throwing a pillow at him, but that seems to girly, so he aims a kick at Ian’s hip instead.

“You fuckin’ know what I mean.” Mickey says around the cigarette, dragging it in slowly and letting out the smoke in a huff. With the window boarded up it has nowhere to go and drifts around the room like some old crime film. “Wouldn’t be against it happening again.”

Mickey’s almost surprised by how bold he is. A few months ago he would’ve died before suggesting a repeat fuck with anyone, let alone his bright-eyed, stupidly attractive freckle-faced neighbour. And sure, it’s not like he’s fuckin asking Gallagher to go steady or some shit. But still. Ian reaches out for the cigarette again.

“Well I didn’t risk being heard jerking off by the whole street for a one-time thing.” Ian offers, but there’s a grin playing at the edge of his mouth and Mickey can’t help the strange almost fond feeling that builds in his chest.

So he actually does kick Ian, who laughs and shoves back.

“Put your fucking dick away, asshole.” Mickey says as he snatches the last of the cigarette back, “No one wants to see that thing.”

Suddenly there’s a loud crash, then the sound of a slamming door from outside the window.

“CARL, IF THAT WAS WHAT I THINK IT WAS YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD.”

Fiona’s voice roars from the Gallagher house and between the cracks of the boarded up window. Mickey growls and tosses the remains of his cigarette out the space between the panels. Ian turns to the window, brows raised in genuine surprise.

“Oh wow, you really can hear everything from here.” He says, and Mickey can’t help but grimace and roll his eyes.

“Don’t I fuckin’ know it.”


End file.
